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HENRY-  SETON  -MERRIMAN 

GIFT  OF 
HORACE  W.  CAIRFENTIER 


l-iOOKSKLI^KH  ( 


DOW 


N    WITH    TUK    Al{ISTOCl{AT8  !     KILL   TUEM  !'  " 


THE     SOWERS 


By  HENRY  SETON  MEKKIMAN.p^ud. 

Author  of  '■'■Roden'^s  Corner^'' 
''With  Edged  Tools''  etc.  With 
Illustrations    hy    Charles    Mente 


NEW    YORK    AND     LONDON 

HARPER  &  BROTHERS  PUBLISHERS 

1899 


By   HEXRY   SETON   MERRIMAN. 

KODEN'S  CORNER.     A  Novel.     Illustrated.     Post 
8vo,  Cloth,  OiJiamental,  $1  75. 

THE  SOWERS.     A  Novel.     Illustrated.     Post  §vo, 
Cloth,  Ornamental,  $1  50. 

FRaM   ON,E    G^INERATION    TO    ANOTHER.      A 
Nbvtl.     Poets ?o,  Cloth,  Ornamental,  $1  25. 

WITH  EDGED  TOOLS.    A  Novel.    Post  Svo,  Cloth, 
, '  ,Oii)afiien|al,  $1  25. 

'•=7^iIE:I^HA1^ITO?.^FaTURE.    a  Novel.    Svo,  Cloth, 
$1  25;  Paper,  35  cents. 


NEAA^    YORK    AND    TONDON  : 
HARPER  &   BROTHERS,  PUBLISHERS. 


Copyright,  1S95,  by  Hakpeu  &  Brothers. 
Copyright,  1800,  by  IIarpkr  &  Brotitkbs. 


All  rig}it$  Tetervni 


CONTENTS  // ^  ( a) 


CHAP.  ^^«° 


I.  A  "WAIF  ON   THE  STEPPE  . 1 

II.  BY  THE  VOLGA ^^ 

III.  DIPLOMATIC *      .      .  20 

IV.  DON  QUIXOTE 29 

V.  THE  BARON ^ 

VI.  THE  TALLEYRAND  dLUB 47 

VII.  OLD  HANDS ^^ 

VIII.  SAFE  ! ^^ 

IX.  THE  PRINCE '^''^ 

X.  THE  MOSCOW  DOCTOR 84 

XI.  CATRINA ^4 

XII.  AT  THORS 1^*^ 

XIII.  UNMASKED * ^^ 

XIV.  A  WIRE-PULLER 1^1 

XV.  IN  A  WINTER  CITY 139 

XVI.  THE  THIN   END 1^6 


XVII.      CHARITY 


XXIV.      HOME      . 
XXV.      OSTERNO 


^'72130 


145 


XVIII.      IN  THE  CHAMPS  ELYSEES 154 

XIX.      ON  THE  NEVA 1^3 

XX.      AN   OFFER  OF  FRIENDSHIP 172 

XXI.      A  SUSPECTED   HOUSE 181 

XXII.      THE   SPIDER   AND  THE   FLY 190 

XXIII.      A  WINTER   SCENE 199 

207 


218 


IV  CONTENTS 

CHAP.  PAGE 

XXVI.      KLOODKOUNDS , 225 

XXVII.      IN  THE   WEB 235 

XXVIII.      IN   THE   CASTLE   OF  TIIORS 244 

XXIX.      ANGLO-KUSSIAN 253 

XXX.     WOLF ! 261 

XXXI.      A   DANGEROUS  EXPEKIMENT 270 

XXXII.      A   CLOUD 279 

XXXiri.      TUE  NET  IS  DHAWN 288 

XXXIV.      AN   APPEAL 297 

XXXV.      ON   THE  EDGE  OF   THE   STORM 306 

XXXVI.      A   TROIS 315 

XXXVII.      A  DEUX .      -  324 

XXXVIII.      A   TALE  THAT   IS  TOLD 332 

XXXIX.      HUSBAND  AND   WIFE ,      *      *      .  341 

XL.      BTEPAN   RETURNS 349 

XLI.      DUTY .  358 

XLTI.       THE   STORM  BURSTS 366 

XLTIt.       BEHIND  THE  VEIL 375 

XLIV.       KISMET 384 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


'  DOWN  WITn  THE  ARISTOCRATS  !  KILL  THEM  !'  "  .  Frontispiece 
'WE    ARE    UNFORTUNATE   TO    MEET    A   THING    LIKE 

this'". Facing  p.  10 

'YES,   I    HAVE    JIY    ANSWER    READY*" *'  68 

IN  A  MOMENT  THEY  WERE  ALL  ON  THEIR  KNEES  "  "  90 
STEINMETZ     PASSED     HIS     BROAD     HAND     OVER     HIS 

FOREHEAD   AS   IF   DAZED" "  lOB 

CATRINA    GATHERED    UP    THE    REINS    AND    GAVE    A 

LITTLE  CRY" "  238 

THROWING  THE  RIFLE  AT  DE  CHAUXVILLE'S  FEET, 

TURNED   ABRUPTLY   AWAY" "  276 

'  STARING.  WITH  HAGGARD  EYES  INTO  THE  FIRE"      .  "  344 


THE    SOWERS 


CHAPTER  I 

A  WAIF  ON  THE  STEPPE 

"In  tills  conntiy  charity  covers  no  sins  !" 
The  speaker  finished  his  remark  with  a  short  laugh. 
He  was  a  big,  stout  man  ;  liis  name  was  Karl  Steinmetz, 
and  it  is  a  name  well  known  in  the  Government  of  Tver 
to  this  day.  lie  spoke  jerkily,  as  stout  men  do  wlien 
they  ride,  and  when  he  had  laughed  his  good-natured, 
half-cynical  laugh,  he  closed  his  lips  beneath  a  huge 
gray  mustache.  So  far  as  one  could  judge  from  the 
action  of  a  square  and  deeply  indented  chin,  his  mouth 
was  expressive  at  that  time — and  possibly  at  all  times — 
of  a  humorous  resignation.  No  reply  was  vouchsafed 
to  him,  and  Karl  Steinmetz  bumped  along  on  his  little 
Cossack  horse,  wliich  was  stretched  out  at  a  gallop. 

Evening  was  drawing  on.  It  was  late  in  October, 
and  a  cold  wind  was  driving  from  the  north-west  across 
a  plain  which  for  sheer  dismalness  of  aspect  may  give 
points  to  Sahara  and  beat  that  abode  of  mental  depres- 
sion without  an  effort.  So  far  as  the  eye  could  reach 
there  was  no  habitation  to  break  the  line  of  horizon. 
A  few  stunted  fir-trees,  standing  in  a  position  of  perma- 
nent deprecation,  with  their  backs  turned,  as  it  were,  to 
the  north,  stood  sparsely  on  the  plain.  The  grass  did 
not  look  good  to  eat,  though  tlie  Cossack  horses  would 


THE     SOWERS 


iio  doubt  have  liked  to  try  it.  The  road  seemed  to 
have  been  drawn  by  some  Titan  engineer  with  a  ruler 
from  horizon  to  horizon. 

Away  to  the  south  there  was  a  forest  of  the  same 
stunted  pines,  where  a  few  cliarcoal-burners  and  resin - 
tappers  eked  out  a  forlorn  and  obscure  existence. 
There  are  a  score  of  such  settlements,  such  gloomy 
farests,  dotted  over  this  plain  of  Tver,  which  covers  an 
area  of  nearly  two  hundred  square  miles.  Tlie  remainder 
of  it  is  pasture,  where  miserable  cattle  and  a  few  horses, 
many  sheep  and  countless  pigs,  seek  their  food  pessi- 
mistically from  God. 

Steinmetz  looked  round  over  this  cheerless  prospect 
with  a  twinkle  of  amused  resignation  in  his  blue  eyes, 
as  if  this  creation  were  a  little  practical  joke,  which  he, 
Karl  Steinmetz,  appreciated  at  its  proper  worth.  The 
whole  scene  was  suggestive  of  immense  distance,  of 
countless  miles  in  all  directioi]s~a  suggestion  not  con- 
veyed by  any  scene  in  England,  by  few  in  Europe.  In 
our  crowded  island  we  have  no  conception  of  a  thousand 
miles.  How  can  we  ?  Few  of  us  have  travelled  five 
hundred  at  a  stretch.  The  land  through  which  these 
men  were  riding  is  the  home  of  great  distances — Russia. 
They  rode,  moreover,  as  if  they  knew  it— as  if  they  had 
ridden  for  days  and  were  aware  of  more  days  in  front 
of  them. 

The  companion  of  Karl  Steinmetz  looked  like  an 
Englishman.  He  was  young  and  fair  and  quiet.  He 
looked  like  a  youthful  athlete  from  Oxford  or  Cam- 
bridge—a simple-minded  person  who  had  jumped  higher 
or  run  quicker  than  anybody  else  without  conceit,  tak- 
ing himself,  like  St.  Paul,  as  he  found  himself  and  giv- 
ing the  credit  elsewhere.  And  one  finds  that,  after  all, 
in  this  world  of  deceit,  we  are  most  of  us  that  which 
we  look  like.  You,  madam,  look  thirty-five  to  a  day, 
although  vourfigure  is  still  youthful,  your  hair  untouched 


A   WAIF    ON    THE    STEPPE  3 

by  gray,  joxw  face  unseamed  by  care.  You  m.iy  look 
in  your  miri'or  and  note  these  accidents  witli  satisfac- 
tion ;  you  may  feel  j'-oung  and  indulge  in  tlie  pastimes  of 
youth  without  effort.  But  you  are  thirty-live.  We 
know  it.  We  who  look  at  you  can  see  it  for  ourselves, 
and,  if  you  could  only  be  brouglit  to  believe  it,  we 
think  no  worse  of  you  on  that  account. 

The  man  who  rode  beside  Karl  Steinmetz  with 
gloomy  eyes  and  a  vague  suggestion  of  flight  in  his 
whole  demeanor  was,  like  reader  and  writer,  exactly 
what  he  seemed.  He  was  the  product  of  an  English 
public  school  and  university.  He  was,  moreover,  a 
modern  product  of  those  seats  of  athletic  exercise.  He 
had  little  education  and  highly  developed  muscles — that 
is  to  say,  he  was  no  scholar  but  essentially  a  gentleman — 
a  good  enough  education  in  its  way,  and  long  may 
Britons  seek  it  ! 

This  young  man's  name  was  Paul  Howard  Alexis, 
and  Fortune  had  made  him  a  Russian  prince.  If,  how- 
ever, anyone,  even  Steinmetz,  called  him  prince,  he 
blushed  and  became  confused.  This  terrible  title  had 
brooded  over  him  while  at  Eton  and  Cambridge.  But 
no  one  had  found  him  out ;  he  remained  Paul  Howard 
Alexis  so  far  as  England  and  his  fi-iends  were  concerned. 
In  Russia,  however,  he  was  known  (by  name  only,  for 
he  avoided  Slavonic  societ}^)  as  Prince  Pavlo  Alexis. 
Tills  plain  was  his ;  half  the  Government  of  Tver  was 
his  ;  the  great  Volga  rolled  through  his  possessions  ; 
sixty  miles  behind  him  a  grim  stone  castle  bore  his  name, 
and  a  tract  of  land  as  vast  as  Yorkshire  was  peopled 
by  humble-minded  persons  who  cringed  at  the  mention 
of  his  Excellency. 

All  this  because  thirty  years  earlier  a  certain  Princess 
Natasha  Alexis  had  fallen  in  love  with  plain  Mi'.  Howard 
of  the  British  Embassy  in  St.  Petersburg.  With  Sla- 
vonic enthusiasm  (for  the  Russian   is  the  most  romantic 


4  THE     SOWEKS 

race  on  earth)  she  informed  Mr.  Howard  of  the  fact, 
and  duly  married  him.  Both  these  persons  were  now 
dead,  and  Paul  Howard  Alexis  owed  it  to  his  mother's 
influence  in  higli  regions  that  the  responsibilities  of 
princedom  were  his.  At  the  time  when  this  title  was 
accorded  to  him  he  had  no  say  in  the  matter.  Indeed, 
he  had  little  say  in  any  matters  except  meals,  which  he 
still  took  in  liquid  form.  Certain  it  is,  however,  that 
he  failed  to  appreciate  his  honors  as  soon  as  he  grew 
up  to  a  proper  comprehension  of  them. 

Equall}?"  certain  is  it  that  he  entirely  failed  to  recog- 
nize the  enviability  of  his  position  as  he  rode  across  the 
plains  of  Tver  toward  the  yellow  Volga  by  the  side  of 
Karl  Steinmetz. 

"This  is  great  nonsense,"  he  said  suddenlj^  "I  feel 
like  a  Niliilist  or  some  theatrical  person  of  tliat  sort.  I 
do  not  think  it  can  be  necessary,  Steinmetz." 

"Kot  necessary,"  answered  Steinmetz  in  thick  gut- 
tural tones,  "but  prudent." 

This  man  spoke  with  the  soft  consonants  of  a  German. 

"  Prudent,  my  dear  prince." 

«  Oh,  drop  that  !  " 

"  When  we  sight  the  Volga  I  will  drop  it  with  pleas- 
ure. Good  Heavens  !  I  wish  I  were  a  prince.  I  should 
liave  it  marked  on  my  linen,  and  sit  up  in  bed  to  read 
it  on  my  nightshirt." 

*'  No,  you  wouldn't,  Steinmetz,"  answered  Alexis, 
with  a  vexed  laugh.  "You  would  hate  it  just  as  much 
as  I  do,  especially  if  it  meant  running  away  from  the 
best  bear-shooting  in  Europe." 

Steinmetz  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  Then  you  should  not  have  been  charitable — cli/irity, 
I  tell  you,  Alexis,  covers  no  sins  in  this  country."^ 

"  Who  made  me  charitable  ?  Besides,  no  decent- 
minded  fellow  could  1)0  anything  else  hcie.  Who  told 
me  of  the  League  of  Charity,    1    should    like  to  know? 


A    WAIF    ON"    THE    STEPPE  5 

Who  put  me  into  it?  Wlio  aroused  my  pity  for  tliese 
poor  beggars  ?  Who  but  a  stout  German  cynic  called 
Steinmetz?" 

"  Stout,  yes — cynic,  if  you  will — German,  no  !  " 

The  words  were  jerked  out  of  liim  by  the  galloping 
horse. 

"Then  what  are  you?" 

Steinmetz  looked  stiaight  in  front  of  him,  with  a  medi- 
tation in  his  qiiiet  eyes  which  made  a  dreamy  man  of  him. 

"  That  depends." 

Alexis  laughed. 

"  Yes,  I  know.  In  Germany  you  are  a  German,  in 
Russia  a  Slav,  in  Poland  a  Pole,  and  in  England  any 
thing  the  moment  suggests." 

"  Exactly  so.  But  to  return  to  you.  You  must  trust 
to  me  in  this  matter.  I  know  this  country.  I  know 
what  this  League  of  Cliarity  was.  It  was  a  bigger 
thing  than  any  dream  of.  It  was  a  power  in  Russia — 
the  greatest  of  all — above  Nihilism — above  the  Emperor 
himself.  Ach  Gott  !  It  was  a  wonderful  organization, 
spreading  over  this  country  like  sunlight  over  a  field. 
It  would  have  made  men  of  our  poor  peasants.  It  was 
God's  work.  If  there  is  a  God — bien  entendu — which 
some  young  men  deny,  because  God  fails  to  recognize 
their  importance,  I  imagine.  And  now  it  is  all  done. 
It  is  crumbled  up  by  the  scurrilous  treachery  of  some 
miscreant.  Ach  !  I  should  like  to  have  him  out  here  on 
tiie  plain.  I  would  choke  him.  For  money,  too  !  The 
devil — it  must  have  been  the  devil — to  sell  that  secret 
to  the  Government  !  " 

"  I  can't  see  what  the  Government  wanted  it  for," 
growled  Alexis  moodily. 

"  No,  but  I  can.  It  is  not  the  Emperor  ;  he  is  a 
gentleman,  although  he  has  the  misfortune  to  wear  the 
purple.  No,  it  is  those  about  him.  They  want  to  stop 
education  ;    they   want   to   crush   the  peasant.      They 


g  THE     SOWERS 

are  afraid  of  being  found  out  ;  tliey  live  in  tlieir  grand 
houses,  and  support  their  grand  names  on  the  money 
they  crush  out  of  the  starving  peasant." 

"  So  do  I,  so  far  as  that  goes." 

"  Of  course  you  do  !  And  I  am  your  steward— your 
crusher.  We  do  not  deny  it,  we  boast  of  it,  but  we 
exchange  a  wink  witli  the  angels — eh  ?  " 

Alexis  rode  on  in  silence  for  a  few  moments.  He  sat 
his  horse  as  English  foxhunters  do— not  prettily — and 
the  little  animal  with  erect  head  and  scraggy  neck  was 
evidently  worried  by  the  unusual  grip  on  his  ribs.  For 
Russians  sit  back,  with  a  short  stirrup  and  a  loose  seat, 
when  they  are  travelling.  One  must  not  form  one's 
idea  of  Russian  horsemanship  from  the  erect  carriage 
affected  in  the  Newski  Prospect. 

"I  wish,"  he  said  abruptly,  "that  I  had  never  at- 
tempted to  do  any  good  ;  doing  good  to  mankind  doesn't 
pay.  Here  I  am  running  away  from  my  own  home  as  if 
I  were  afraid  of  the  police  !     The  position  is  impossible." 

Steinnietz  shook  his  shaggy  head. 

"No.  No  position  is  impossible  in  this  countr}^ — 
except  the  Czar's— if  one  only  keeps  cool.  For  men 
such  as  you  and  I  any  position  is  quite  eas3\  But  these 
Russians  are  too  romantic — too  exaltes— they  give  way 
to  a  morbid  love  of  martyrdom  :  they  think  they  can 
do  no  good  to  mankind  unless  they  are  uncomfortable." 

Alexis  turned  in  his  saddle  and  looked  keenly  into 
his  companion's  face. 

"  Do  you  know,"  he  said,  "  I  believe  you  founded  the 
Charity  League  ?  " 

Steinnietz  laughed  in  his  eas}^  stout  way. 

"It  founded  itself,"  he  said;  "the  angels  founded 
it  in  heaven.  I  hope  a  committee  of  them  will  attend 
to  the  eternal  misery  of  the  dog  who  betrayed  it." 

"  I  trust  they  will,  but  in  the  meantime  I  stick  to  my 
opinion  that  it  is  unnecessary  for  me  to  leave  the  coun- 


A    WAIF    ON   THE    STUPPE  7 

try.     What   bave   I   done  ?     I   do   not   belong   to   the 

League  ;  it  is  composed  entirely  of  Russian  nobles  ; 
I  don't  admit  that  I  am  a  Russian  noble." 

"But,"  persisted  Stciiimetz  quietlj^  "you  subscribe 
to  the  League.  Four  hundred  thousand  rubles — they 
do  not  grow  at  the  roadside." 

"  But  the  rubles  have  not  my  name  on  them." 

"  That  may  be,  but  we  all — they  all — know  where 
the}""  are  likely  to  come  from.  My  dear  Paul,  you  can- 
not keep  up  the  farce  any  longer.  You  are  not  an 
English  gentleman  who  comes  across  here  for  sporting 
purposes  ;  you  do  not  live  in  the  old  Castle  of  Osterno 
tlii-ee  months  in  the  year  because  you  have  a  taste  for 
mediaBval  fortresses.  You  are  a  Russian  prince,  and 
your  estates  are  the  happiest,  the  most  enlightened  in 
the  empire.  That  alone  is  suspicious.  You  collect  \o\\x 
rents  yourself.  You  have  no  German  agents — no  Ger- 
man vampires  about  you.  There  are  a  thousand  things 
suspicious  about  Prince  Pavlo  Alexis  if  those  that  be 
in  high  places  only  come  to  think  about  it.  They  have 
not  come  to  think  about  it — thanks  to  our  care  and  to 
your  English  independence.  But  that  is  only  another 
reason  why  we  should  redouble  our  care.  You  must 
not  be  in  Russia  when  the  Charit}^  League  is  picked  to 
pieces.  There  will  be  trouble — half  the  nobility  in 
Russia  will  be  in  it.  There  will  be  confiscations  and 
degradations  :  there  will  be  imprisonment  and  Siberia 
for  some.  You  are  better  out  of  it,  for  j^ou  are  not  an 
Englishman  ;  you  have  not  even  a  Foreign  Office  pass- 
port. Your  passport  is  your  patent  of  nobility,  and 
that  is  Russian.     No,  you  are  better  out  of  it." 

"And  you — what  about  you?"  asked  Paul,  with  a 
little  laugh — the  laugh  that  one  brave  man  gives  when 
he  sees  another  do  a  plucky  thing. 

"I !  Oh,  I  am  all  right  !  I  am  nobody  ;  I  am  hated 
of  all  the  peasants  because  I  am  your  steward  and  so 


8  THE     SOWERS 

hard — so  cruel.     That  is  my  certificate  of  harmlessiiess 
witli  those  that  are  about  the  Emperor." 

Paul  made  no  answer.  He  was  not  of  an  argument- 
ative mind,  being  a  large  man,  and  consequently 
inclined  to  the  sins  of  omission  rather  than  to  the 
active  form  of  doing  wrong.  He  had  an  enormous 
faith  in  Karl  Steinmetz,  and,  indeed,  no  man  knew 
Russia  better  than  this  cosmopolitan  adventurer. 
Steinmetz  it  was  who  pricked  forward  with  all  speed, 
wearing  his  hardy  little  horse  to  a  drooping  semblance 
of  its  former  self.  Steinmetz  it  was  who  had  recom- 
mended quitting  tlie  travelling  carriage  and  taking  to 
the  saddle,  althougli  his  own  bulk  led  him  to  prefer 
the  slower  and  more  comfortable  method  of  covering 
space.  It  would  almost  seem  that  he  doubted  his  own 
ascendency  over  his  companion  and  master,  which 
semblance  was  further  increased  by  a  subtle  ring  of 
anxiety  in  his  voice  while  he  argued.  It  is  possible  that 
Karl  Steinmetz  suspected  the  late  Princess  Natasha  of 
having  transmitted  to  her  son  a  small  hereditar3q3ortion 
of  that  Slavonic  exaltation  and  recklessness  of  conse- 
quence which  he  deplored. 

"Then  you  turn  back  at  Tver?"  enquired  Paul,  at 
length  breaking  a  long  silence, 

"Yes  ;  I  must  not  leave  Osterno  just  now^  Perhaps 
later,  when  the  winter  has  come,  I  will  follow.  Russia 
is  quiet  during  the  winter,  very  quiet.     Ha,  ha  !  " 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  shivered.  But  the 
shiver  was  interrupted.  He  raised  himself  in  his  saddle 
and  peered  forward  into  the  gathering  darkness. 

"What  is  that,"  he  asked  sharply,  "on  the  road  in 
front?" 

Paul  had  already  seen  it. 

"It  looks  like  a  horse,"  he  answered — "a  strayed 
horse,  for  it  has  no  rider." 

They  were  going  west,  and  what  little  daylight  there 


A    WAIF    ON    THE    STEPPE  9 

was  lived  on  the  western  liorizon.  The  form  of  tlie 
horse,  cat  out  in  black  relief  against  the  sky,  was  weird 
and  ghostlike.  It  was  standing  by  the  side  of  the  road, 
apparently  grazing.  As  they  approached  it,  its  outlines 
became  more  defined. 

"  It  has  a  saddle,"  said  Steinmetz  at  length.  *'  Wliat 
have  we  here  ?  " 

The  beast  was  evidently  famishing,  for,  as  they  came 
near,  it  never  ceased  its  occupation  of  dragging  the 
wizened  tufts  of  grass  up,  root  and  all. 

"What  have  we  here?"  repeated  Steinmetz. 

And  the  two  men  clapped  spurs  to  their  tired  horses. 

The  solitary  waif  had  a  rider,  but  he  was  not  in  the 
saddle.  One  foot  was  caught  in  the  stirruj),  and  as  the 
horse  moved  on  from  tuft  to  tuft  it  dragged  its  dead 
master  along  the  ground. 


CHAPTER  II 

BY    THE     VOLGA 

"This  is  going  to  be  unpleasant,"  muttered  Stein- 
metz,  as  he  cumbrously  left  the  saddle.  "  That  man 
is  dead — has  been  dead  some  days  ;  he's  stiff.  And 
the  horse  has  been  dragging  him  face  downward.  God 
in  lieaven  !   this  will  be  unpleasant." 

Paul  had  leaped  to  the  ground,  and  was  already 
loosening  the  dead  man's  foot  from  the  stirrup.  He 
did  it  with  a  certain  sort  of  skill,  despite  the  stiffness 
of  the  heavy  riding-boot,  as  if  he  had  walked  a 
hospital  in  his  time.  Very  quickl}^  Steinmetz  came  to 
his  assistance,  tenderly  lifting  the  dead  man  and  lajdng 
him  on  his  back. 

"  Ach  !  "  he  exclaimed  ;  "  we  are  unfortunate  to  meet 
a  thing  like  this." 

There  was  no  need  of  Paul  Alexis'  medical  skill  to 
tell  that  this  man  was  dead  ;  a  child  would  have  known 
It.  Before  searching  the  pockets  Steinmetz  took  out  his 
own  handkerchief  and  laid  it  over  a  face  which  had 
become  unrecognizable.  The  horse  was  standing  over 
them.  It  bent  its  head  and  sniffed  wonderingly  at 
that  v/hicli  had  once  been  its  master.  There  was  a 
singular,  scared  look  in  its  eyes. 

Steinmetz  pushed  aside  the  enquiring  muzzle. 

"  If  you  could  s])eak,  my  friend,"  he  said,  "  we  might 
want  you.  As  it  is,  you  had  better  continue  your 
meal." 

Paul  was  unbuttoning  the  dead  man's  clothes.  lie 
inserted  his  hand  within  the  rough  shirt. 


BY    THE    VOLGA  11 

"TIlis  man,"  lie  said,  "was  starving.  lie  probaLl}^ 
fainted  from  sheer  exhaustion  and  rolled  out  of  tiie 
saddle.     It  is  hunger  that  killed  him." 

"  With  his  pocket  full  of  money,"  added  Steinmetz, 
withdrawing  his  hand  from  the  dead  man's  pocket  and 
displaying  a  bundle  of  notes  and  some  silver. 

There  was  nothing  in  any  of  the  other  pockets — no 
paper,  no  clue  of  any  sort  to  the  man's  identity. 

Tlie  two  finders  of  this  silent  tragedy  stood  up  and 
looked  around  them.  It  was  almost  dark.  They  were 
ten  miles  from  a  habitation.  It  does  not  sound  much  ; 
but  a  traveller  would  be  hard  put  to  place  ten  miles 
between  himself  and  a  habitation  in  the  whole  of  the 
British  Islands.  This,  added  to  a  lack  of  road  or  path 
which  is  unknown  to  us  in  England,  made  ten  miles  of 
some  importance. 

Steinmetz  had  pushed  his  fur  cap  to  the  back  of  his 
liead,  which  he  was  scratching  pensively.  He  had  a 
habit  of  scratching  his  forehead  with  one  finger,  which 
denoted  thought. 

"Now,  what  are  we  to  do?"  he  muttered.  "Can't 
bury  the  poor  chap  and  say  nothing  about  it.  I  wonder 
where  his  passport  is?     We  have  here  a  traged3^" 

He  turned  to  the  horse,  which  was  grazing  hurriedly. 

"  My  friend  of  the  four  legs,"  he  said,  "  it  is  a  thou- 
sand pities  that  you  are  dumb." 

Paul  was  still  examining  the  dead  man  with  that 
callousness  which  denotes  one  who,  for  love  or  conveni- 
ence, has  become  a  doctor.  He  was  a  doctor — an  ama- 
teur.    He  was  a  Caius  man. 

Steinmetz  looked  down  at  him  with  a  little  laugh. 
He  noticed  the  tenderness  of  the  touch,  the  deft  finger- 
ing wliich  had  something  of  respect  in  it.  Paul  Alexis 
was  visibly  one  of  those  men  who  take  mankind  seri- 
ously, and  have  that  in  their  hearts  which  for  want  of  a 
better  word  we  call  sympathy. 


12  THE     SOWERS 

"Mind  yon  do  not  catch  some  infections  disease," said 
Steinmetz  grnffly.  "  I  should  not  care  to  liandle  any 
stray  moujik  one  finds  dead  about  the  roadside  ;  unless, 
of  course,  you  think  there  is  more  money  about  him. 
It  would  be  a  pity  to  leave  that  for  tlie  police." 

Paul  did  not  answer.     He  was  examining  the  limp,^ 
dirty  hands  of  the  dead  man.     The  fingers  were  covered[j 
with    soil,  the    nails    were   broken.     He   had    evidently 
clutched  at  the  earth  and  at  every  tuft  of  grass,  after  his 
fall  from  the  saddle. 

"  Look  here,  at  these  hands,"  said  Paul  suddenly. 
"This  is  an  Englishman.  You  never  see  fingers  this 
shape  in  Russia." 

Steinmetz  stooped  down.  He  held  out  his  own  square- 
tipped  fingers  in  comparison.  Paul  rubbed  the  dead 
hand  with  his  sleeve  as  if  it  were  a  piece  of  statuary. 

"Look  here,"  he  continued,  "  the  dirt  rubs  off  and 
leaves  the  hand  quite  a  gentlemanly  color.  This" — 
he  paused  and  lifted  Steinmetz's  handkerchief,  dropping 
it  again  hurriedly  over  the  mutilated  face — "  this  thing- 
was  once  a  gentleman." 

"  It  certainly  has  seen  better  days,"  admitted  Stein- 
metz, with  a  grim  humor  which  was  sometimes  his. 
"Come,  let  us  drag  him  beneath  that  pine-tree  and  ride 
on  to  Tver.  We  shall  do  no  good,  my  dear  Alexis,  wast- 
ing our  time  over  the  possible  antecedents  of  a  gentleman 
who,  for  reasons  of  his  own,  is  silent  on  the  subject." 

Paul  rose  from  the  ground.  His  movements  were 
those  of  a  strong  and  supple  man,  one  whose  muscles 
had  never  had  time  to  grow  stiff.  He  was  an  active 
man,  who  never  hurried.  Standing  thus  upright  he  was 
very  tall — nearly  a  giant.  Only  in  St.  Petersburg,  of  all 
the  cities  of  the  world,  could  he  expect  to  pass  un- 
noticed— the  city  of  tall  men  and  plain  women.  He 
rubbed  his  two  hands  together  in  a  singularlj'^  profes- 
sional manner  which  sat  amiss  on  him. 


BY   THE    VOLGA  13 

"What  do  you  propose  doing?"  lie  asked.  "You 
know  the  laws  of  this  country  better  than  I  do." 

Steinmetz  scratched  his  forehead  with  his  forefinger. 
"  Our  theatrical  friends  the  police,"  he  said,  "  are 
going  to  enjoy  this.  Suppose  we  prop  him  up  sitting 
against  that  tree— no  one  will  run  away  with  him— and 
lead  his  horse  into  Tver.  I  will  give  notice  to  the 
police,  but  I  will  not  do  so  until  you  are  in  the  Peters- 
burg train.  I  will,  of  course,  give  the  ispravnik  to  un- 
derstand that  your  princely  mind  could  not  be  bothered 
by  such  details  as  this— that  you  have  proceeded  on 
your  journey." 

"I  do  not  like  leaving  the  poor  beggar  alone  all 
night,"  said  Paul.  "  There  may  be  wolves— the  crows 
in  the  early  morning." 

''  Bah  !  that  is  because  you  are  so  soft-hearted.  My 
dear  fellow,  what  business  is  it  of  ours  if  the  universal 
laws  of  nature  are  illustrated  upon  this  unpleasant 
object?  We  all  live  on  each  other.  The  wolves  and 
the  crows  have  the  last  word.  Tant  mieux  for  the 
wolves  and  the  crows  !  Come,  let  us  carry  him  to  that 
tree." 

The  moon  was  just  rising  over  the  line  of  the  horizon. 
All  around  them  the  steppe  lay  in  grim  and  lifeless 
silence.  In  such  a  scene,  where  life  seemed  rare  and 
precious,  death  gained  in  its  power  of  inspiring  fear. 
It  is-  different  in  crowded  cities,  where  an  excess  of 
human  life  seems  to  vouch  for  the  continuity  of  the  race, 
where,  in  a  teeming  population,  one  life  more  or  less 
seems  of  little  value.  Tlie  rosy  hue  of  sunset  was  fad- 
ing  to  a  clear  green,  and  in  the  midst  of  a  cloudless  sky, 
Jupiter— very  near  the  earth  at  that  time— shone  intense, 
and  brilliant  like  a  lamp.  It  was  an  evening  such  as 
only  Russia  and  the  great  North  lands  ever  see,  where 
the  sunset  is  almost  in  the  north  and  the  sunrise  holds 
it  by  the  hand.     Over  the   whole  scene  there  hung  a 


14  THE     SOWERS 

clear,  transparent  niglit,  green  and  shimmering,  which 
would  never  be  darker  tlian  an  English  twilight. 

The  two  living  men  carried  tlie  nameless,  unrecogniza- 
ble dead  to  a  resting-place  beneatli  a  stunted  pine  a  few 
paces  removed  from  the  road.  They  laid  him  decently 
at  full  lengtl),  crossing  his  soil-begrimed  hands  over  his 
breast,  t^dng  the  handkerchief  down  over  his  face. 

Then  they  turned  and  left  him,  alone  in  that  luminous 
night.  A  waif  that  had  fallen  by  the  great  highway 
without  a  word,  without  a  sign.  A  half-run  race — a 
story  cut  off  in  the  middle  ;  for  he  was  a  young  man 
still  ;  his  hair,  all  dusty,  draggled,  and  blood-stained, 
bad  no  streak  of  gray  ;  his  hands  w^ere  smooth  and 
youthful.  There  was  a  vague  suspicion  of  sensual  soft- 
ness about  his  body,  as  if  this  might  have  been  a  man 
W'ho  loved  comfort  and  ease,  who  had  alwaj^s  chosen  the 
primrose  path,  had  never  learned  the  salutary  lesson  of 
self-denial.  The  incipient  stoutness  of  limb  contrasted 
strangely  with  the  drawn  meagreness  of  his  body,  wliich 
was  contracted  b}^  want  of  food.  Paul  Alexis  was  right. 
This  man  had  died  of  starvation,  within  ten  miles  of  the 
great  Volga,  within  nine  miles  of  the  outskirts  of  Tver, 
a  city  second  to  Moscow,  and  once  her  rival.  Therefore 
it  could  only  be  that  he  had  2)urposely  avoided  the 
dwellings  of  men  ;  that  he  was  a  fugitive  of  some  sort 
or  another.  Paul's  theory  that  this  was  an  Englishman 
had  not  been  received  with  enthusiasm  by  Steinmetz  ; 
but  that  philosopher  liad  stooped  to  inspect  the  narrow, 
tell-tale  fingers.  Steinmetz,  be  it  noted,  had  an  infinite 
capacity  for  holding  his  tongue. 

They  mounted  their  horses  and  rode  away  without 
looking  back.  But  they  did  not  speak,  as  if  each  were 
deep  in  his  own  thoughts.  Material  had  indeed  been 
afforded  them,  for  who  could  tell  who  this  featureless 
man  might  be?  They  were  left  in  a  state  of  hopeless 
curiosit}',  as  who,  liaving  picked  up  a  })age  with  "  Finis" 


BY    THE    VOLGA  15 

written  upon  it,  falls  to  wondering  wliat  the  story  may 
have  been. 

Steinmetz  bad  thrown  tlie  bridle  of  the  straying  horse 
over  his  arm,  and  the  animal  trotted  obediently  by  the 
side  of  the  fidgety  little  Cossaeks. 

"  That  was  bad  luck,"  exclaimed  the  elder  man  at 
length,  "  d — d  bad  luck  !  In  this  country  the  less  you 
find,  the  less  you  see,  the  less  you  understand,  the 
simpler  is  your  existence.  Those  Nihilists,  with  their 
mysterious  ways  and  their  reprehensible  love  of  ex- 
plosives, have  made  honest  men's  lives  a  burden  to 
them." 

"  Their  motives  were  originally  good,"  put  in  Paul. 

"  That  is  possible  ;  but  a  good  motive  is  no  excuse 
for  a  bad  means.  They  wanted  to  get  along  too  quickly. 
They  are  pig-headed,  exalted,  unpractical  to  a  man.  I 
do  not  mention  the  women,  because  when  women  med- 
dle in  politics  they  make  fools  of  themselves,  even  in 
England.  These  Nihilists  would  have  been  all  very  well 
if  they  had  been  content  to  sow  for  posterity.  But  they 
wanted  to  see  the  fruits  of  their  labors  in  one  genera- 
tion. Education  does  not  grow  like  that.  It  requires  a 
couple  of  generations  to  germinate.  It  has  to  be 
manured  by  the  brains  of  fools  before  it  is  of  any  use. 
In  England  it  has  reached  this  stage  ;  here  in  Russia 
the  sowing  has  only  begun.  Now,  we  were  doing  some 
good.  The  Charity  League  was  the  thing.  It  began  by 
training  tlieir  starved  bodies  to  be  ready  for  the  educa- 
tion when  it  came.  And  very  little  of  it  would  have 
come  in  our  time.  If  you  educate  a  hungry  man,  you 
set  a  devil  loose  upon  the  world.  Fill  their  stomachs 
before  you  feed  their  brains,  or  you  will  give  them 
mental  indigestion  ;  and  a  man  with  mental  indigestion 
raises  hell  or  cuts  his  own  throat." 

"That  is  just  what  I  want  to  do — fill  their  stomaclis. 
I  don't  care  about  the  rest.     I'm  not  responsible  for  the 


16  THE     SOWERS 

progress  of  tlie  world  or  the  good  of  Inunaiiity,"  said 
Paul. 

He  rode  on  in  silence  ;  tlien  lie  burst  out  again  in  the 
curt  phraseology  of  a  man  wliose  feeling  is  stronger  than 
be  cares  to  admit. 

"I've  got  no  grand  ideas  about  the  human  race,"  he 
said.  "  A  very  little  contents  me.  A  little  piece  of 
Tver,  a  few  thousand  peasants,  are  good  enough  for  me. 
It  seems  rather  hard  that  a  fellow  can't  give  away  of  his 
surplus  money  in  charity  if  he  is  such  a  fool  as  to  want 
to." 

Steinmetz  was  riding  stubbornly  along.  Suddenly  he 
gave  a  little  chuckle — a  guttural  sound  expressive  of  a 
somewhat  Germanic  satisfaction. 

"I  don't  see  how  they  can  stop  us,"  he  said.  "The 
League,  of  course,  is  done  ;  it  will  crumble  away  in 
sheer  panic.     But  here,  in  Tver,  they  cannot  stop  us." 

He  clapped  his  great  hand  on  his  thigh  with  more 
glee  than  one  would  have  expected  him  to  feel  ;  for  this 
man  posed  as  a  cynic — a  despiser  of  men,  a  scoffer  at 
charit3\ 

"  They'll  find  it  very  difficult  to  stop  me,"  muttered 
Paul  Alexis. 

It  was  now  dark — as  dark  as  ever  it  ^vould  be.  Stein- 
metz peered  tlirough  the  gloom  toward  him  with  a  little 
laugh — half  tolerance,  half  admiration. 

The  country  was  here  a  little  more  broken.  Long,  low 
hills,  like  vast  waves,  rose  and  fell  beneath  the  horses' 
feet.  Ages  ago  the  Volga  may  have  been  here,  and, 
slowly  narrowing,  must  have  left  these  hills  in  deposit. 
From  the  crest  of  an  incline  the  horsemen  looked  down 
over  a  vast  rolling  tableland,  and  far  ahead  of  them  a 
great  white  streak  bounded  the  horizon. 

"  The  Volga  !  "  said  Steinmetz.  "  We  are  almost  there. 
And  there,  to  the  right,  is  the  Tversha.  It  is  like  a 
great  catapult.     Gott  !  Avhat  a  wonderful   night !     No 


BY   THE    VOLGA  17 

wonder  these  Russians  are  romantic.  What  a  night  for 
a  pipe  and  a  long  chair  !  Tliis  liorse  of  mine  is  tired. 
He  shakes  me  most  abominably'." 

"Like  to  change?"  enquired  Paul  curtly. 

"  No ;  it  would  make  no  difference.  You  are  as 
heavy  as  I,  although  I  am  wider  !  Ah  !  there  are  the 
lights  of  Tver." 

Ahead  of  them  a  few  lights  twinkled  feebly,  some- 
times visible  and  then  hidden  again  as  they  rode  over 
the  rolling  hillocks.  One  plain  ever  suggests  another, 
but  the  resemblance  between  the  steppes  of  Tver  and 
the  great  Sahara  is  at  times  startling.  There  is  ia  both 
that  roll  as  of  the  sea — the  great  roll  that  heaves 
unceasingly  round  the  Capes  of  Good  Hope  and  Horn. 
Looked  at  casually,  Tver  and  Sahara's  plains  are  level, 
a^id  it  is  only  in  crossing  them  that  one  realizes  the 
gentle  up  and  down  beneath  the  horses'  feet. 

Soon  Steinmetz  raised  his  head  and  sniffed  in  a  loud 
Teutonic  manner.  It  was  the  reek  of  water  ;  for  great 
rivers,  like  the  ocean,  have  their  smell.  And  the  Volga 
is  a  revelation.  Men  travel  far  to  see  a  city,  but  few 
seem  curious  about  a  river.  Every  river  has,  neverthe- 
less, its  individuality,  its  great  silent  interest.  Every 
river  has,  moreover,  its  influence,  which  extends  to  the 
people  who  pass  their  lives  within  sight  of  its  waters. 
Thus  the  Guadalquivir  is  rapid,  mysterious,  untrammelled 
— breaking  frequently  from  its  boundary.  And  it  runs 
through  Andalusia.  The  Nile — the  river  of  ages — 
runs  clear,  untroubled  through  the  centuries,  between 
banks  untouched  by  man.  The  Rhine — romantic,  cul- 
tivated, artificial,  with  a  rough  subcurrent  and  a  muddy 
bed — through  Germany.  The  Seine  and  the  Tiiames — 
shallow — shallow — shallow.  And  we — who  live  upon 
their  banks  ! 

The  Volga — immense,  stupendous,  a  great  power,  an 
influence  two  thousand  four  hundred  miles  long.     Some 
2 


18  THE     SOWERS 

have  seen  the  Danube,  and  tliink  they  have  seen  a  great 
river.  So  they  have  ;  but  the  Russian  giant  is  seven 
lumdred  miles  longer.  A  vast  yellow  stream,  moving 
on  to  the  distant  sea — slow,  gentle,  inexorable,  over- 
whelming. 

AH  great  things  in  nature  have  the  power  of  crushing 
the  human  intellect.  Russians  are  thus  crushed  by  tlie 
vastness  of  their  country,  of  their  rivers.  Man  is  but 
a  small  thing  in  a  great  country,  and  those  who 
live  by  Nile,  or  Guadalquivir,  or  Volga  seem  to  hold 
their  lives  on  condition.  They  exist  from  day  to  day 
by  the  tolerance  of  their  river. 

Steinmetz  and  Paul  paused  for  a  moment  on  the 
wooden  floating  bridge  and  looked  at  the  great  river. 
All  who  cross  that  bridge,  or  the  railway  bridge  higher 
up  the  stream,  must  do  the  same.  They  pause  and  draw 
a  deep  breath,  as  if  in  the  presence  of  something  super- 
natural. 

They  rode  on  without  speaking  through  the  squalid 
town — the  whilom  rival  and  the  victim  of  brilliant 
Moscow.  They  rode  straight  to  the  station,  where 
they  dined  in,  by  the  way,  one  of  the  best  railway 
refreshment  rooms  in  the  world.  At  one  o'clock  the 
night  express  from  Moscow  to  St.  Petersburg,  with  its 
huge  American  locomotive,  rumbled  into  the  station. 
Paul  secured  a  chair  in  the  long  saloon  car,  and  then 
returned  to  the  platform.  The  train  waited  twenty 
minutes  for  refreshments,  and  he  still  had  much  to  say 
to  Steinmetz  ;  for  one  of  these  men  owned  a  princi- 
pality and  the  other  governed  it.  They  walked  up  and 
down  the  long  platform,  smoking  endless  cigarettes, 
talking  gravely. 

Steinmetz  stood  on  the  platform  and  watched  the 
train  pass  slowly  away  into  the  night.  Then  he  went 
toward  a  lamp,  and  taking  a  pocket-haiuikerchief  from 
his  pocket,  examined  each  corner  of  it  in  succession.     It 


BY    THE    VOLGA  19 

was  a  small  pocket-handkerchief  of  fine  cambric.  In  one 
corner  were  the  initials  S.  S.  B.,  worked  neatly  in  wliite 
— such  embroidery  as  is  done  in  St.  Petersburg. 

"Ach!"  exclaimed  Steinmetz  sliortly  ;  "something 
told  me  that  tlmt  was  he." 

He  turned  the  little  piece  of  cambric  over  and  over, 
examining  it  slowly,  with  a  heavy  Germanic  cunning. 
He  had  taken  tliis  handkerchief  from  the  body  of  tne 
nameless  rider  wlio  was  now  lying  alone  on  the  steppe 
twelve  miles  away. 

Steinmetz  returned  to  the  large  refreshment  room, 
and  ordered  tlie  waiter  to  bring  him  a  glass  of  Benedic- 
tine, which  he  drank  slowl}'^  and  thoughtfully. 

Then  he  went  toward  the  large  black  stove  which 
stands  in  the  railway  restaurant  at  Tver.  He  opened 
the  door  with  the  point  of  his  boot.  The  wood  was 
roaring  and  crackling  within.  He  threw  the  handker- 
chief in  and  closed  the  door. 

"  It  is  as  well,  mon  prince,"  he  muttered,  "  that  I  found 
this,  and  not  you." 


CHAPTER  m 

DIPLOMATIC 

"  All  til  at  tliere  is  of  the  most  brilli.ant  and  least 
trutliful  in  Europe,"  M.  Claude  c]e  Chauxville  had  said 
to  a  lady  earlier  in  the  evening,  apropos  of  the  great 
gathering  at  the  French  Embassy,  and  the  mot  had 
gone  the   round   of  the   room. 

In  society  a  little  mot  will  go  a  long  way.  M.  le 
Baron  de  Chauxville  was,  moreover,  a  manufacturer 
of  mots.  By  calling  he  was  attache  to  the  French 
Embassy  in  London  ;  by  profession  he  was  an  epigram- 
matist. That  is  to  say,  he  was  a  sort  of  social  revolver. 
He  went  off  if  one  touched  him  conversationally,  and 
like  others  among  us,  he  frequently  missed  fire. 

Of  course,  he  had  but  little  real  respect  for  the  truth. 
If  one  wishes  to  be  epigrammatic,  one  must  relinquish 
the  hope  of  being  either  agreeable  or  veracious.  M.  de 
Chauxville  did  not  reall}^  intend  to  convey  the  idea  that 
any  of  the  persons  assembled  in  the  great  guest  cham- 
bers of  the  French  Embassy  that  evening  were  anything 
but  what  they  seemed. 

He  could  not  surely  imagine  that  Lady  Mealhead — 
the  beautiful  spouse  of  the  seventh  Earl  IMealhead — was 
anything  but  what  she  seemed  :  namely,  a  great  lady. 
Of  course,  M.  de  Chauxville  knew  that  Lady  Mealhead 
had  once  been  the  darling  of  the  music-halls,  and  that 
a  thousand  hearts  had  vociferously  gone  out  to  her 
from  sixpenny  and  even  three])enny  galleries  when  she 
answered  to  the  name  of  Tiny  Smalltoes.  But  then 
M.  de  Chauxville  knew  as  well  as  you  and  I — Lady  Meal- 


DIPLOMATIC 


21 


head  no  doubt  liad  told  him— that  she  was  the  daui^diter 
of  a  clergyman,  and  had  chosen  the  stage  in  pivfereiice 
to  the  school-room  as  a  means  of  supporting  her  aged 
motlier.  Whether  M.  de  Chauxville  believed  this  or 
not,  it  is  not  for  us  to  enquire.  He  certainly  loolvcd  as 
if  he  believed  it  when  Lady  Mealhead  told  him— and 
his  expressive  Gallic  eyes  waxed  tender  at  the  mention 
of  her  mother,  the  relict  of  the  late  clergyman,  whose 
name  had  somehow  been  overlooked  by  Crockford.  A 
Frenchman  loves  his  mother— in  the  abstract. 

Nor  could  M.  de  Chauxville  take  exception  at  young 
Cyril  Squyrt,  the  poet.  Cyril  looked  like  a  poet.  He 
wore  his  hair  over  his  collar  at  the  back,  and  below  the 
collar-bone  in  front.  And,  moreover,  he  was  a  poet- 
one  of  those  who  write  for  ages  yet  unborn.  Besides, 
his  poems  could  be  bought  (of  the  publisher  only  ;  the 
railway  bookstall  men  did  not  understand  them)  beauti- 
fully bound  ;  really  beautifully  bound  in  white  kid,  with 
green  ribbon— a  very  thin  volume  and  very  thin  poetry. 
Meddlesome  persons  have  been  known  to  state  that 
Cyril  Squyrt's  father  kept  a  prosperous  hot-sausage- and- 
mashed-potato  shop  in  Leeds.  But-one  must  not  always 
believe  all  that  one  hears. 

It  appears  that  beneath  the  turf,  or  on  it,  all  men  are 
equal,  so  no  one  could  object  to  the  presence  of  Billy 
Bale,  the  man,  by  Gad  !  who  could  give  you  the  straight 
tip  on  any  race,  and  looked  like  it.  We  all  know  Bale's 
livery  stable,  the  same  being  Billy's  father  ;  but  no  mat- 
ter. "^  Billy  wears  the  best  cut  riding-breeches  in  the  Park, 
and,  let  me  tell  you,  there  are  many  folk  in  society  with 
a  smaller  recommendation  than  that. 

Now,  it  is  not  our  business  to  go  round  the  rooms  of 
the  French  Embassy  picking  holes  in  the  earthly  robes 
of  society's  elect.  Suffice  it  to  say  that  every  one  was 
there.  Miss  Kate  Whyte,  of  course,  who  had  made  a 
place  in   society   and   held  it  by  the  indecency  of  her 


22  THE     SOWERS 

language.  Lady  Mealhead  said  she  couldn't  stand  Kitty 
Wliyte  at  any  price.  We  are  sorry  to  use  such  a  word 
as  indecency  in  connection  with  a  young  person  of  the 
gentler  sex,  but  facts  must  sometimes  be  recognized„ 
And  it  is  a  bare  fact  that  society  tolerated,  nay,  encour- 
aged, Kitty  Whyte,  because  society  never  knew,  and 
always  wanted  to  know,  what  she  would  say  next.  She 
sailed  so  near  to  the  unsteady  breeze  of  decorum  that  the 
safer-going  craft  hung  breathlessly  in  her  wake  in  the 
hope  of  an  upset. 

Every  one,  in  fact,  was  there.  All  those  who  have 
had  greatness  thrust  upon  them,  and  the  others,  those 
who  thrust  themselves  upon  the  great — those,  in  a  word, 
who  reach  such  as  are  above  them  by  doing  that  which 
should  be  beneath  them.  Lord  Mealhead,  by  the  way. 
was  not  there.  He  never  is  an3Mvhere  where  the  respect- 
able writer  and  his  high-born  reader  are  to  be  found.  It 
is  discreet  not  to  enquire  where  Lord  Mealhead  is, 
especially  of  Lady  Mealhead,  who  has  severed  more 
completely  her  connection  with  the  past.  His  lordship 
is,  perchance,  of  a  sentimental  humor,  and  loves  to 
wander  in  those  pasteboard  groves  where  first  he  met  his 
Tiny — and  very  natural,  too.    • 

There  was  music  and  the  refreshments.  It  was,  in 
fact,  a  reception.  Gaul's  most  lively  sons  bowed  before 
Albion's  fairest  daughters,  and  displayed  that  fund  of 
verve  and  esprit  which  they  rightly  pride  themselves 
upon  possessing,  and  which,  of  course,  leave  mere 
Englishmen  so  far  behind  in  the  paths  of  love  and 
chivalry. 

When  not  thus  actively  engaged  they  whispered 
together  in  corners  and  nudged  each  other,  exchanging 
muttered  comments,  in  which  the  word  charmante  came 
conveniently  to  the  fore.  Thus,  the  lightsome  son  of 
republican  Gaul  in  society. 

iL  is,  however,  high  time  to  explain  the  reason  of  our 


DIPLOMATIC  23 

own  presence — of  our  own  reception  by  France's  courte- 
ous representative.  We  are  here  to  meet  Mrs.  Sydney 
Bamborough,  and,  moreover,  to  confine  our  attention 
to  the  persons  more  or  less  implicated  in  the  present 
history, 

Mrs.  Sydney  Bamborough  was  undoubtedly  the  belle 
of  tlie  evening.  She  had  only  to  look  in  one  of  the  many 
mirrors  to  make  sure  of  that  fact.  And  if  she  wanted 
further  assurance  a  hundred  men  in  the  room  would 
have  been  ready  to  swear  to  it.  This  lady  had  recently 
dawned  on  London  societ};^ — a  young  widow.  She  rarely 
mentioned  her  husband  ;  it  was  understood  to  be  a  pain- 
ful subject.  He  had  been  attached  to  several  embassies, 
she  said  ;  he  had  a  brilliant  career  before  him,  and  sud- 
denly he  had  died  abroad.  And  then  she  gave  a  lillle 
sigh  and  a  bright  smile,  which,  being  interpreted,  meant 
*'  Let  us  change  the  subject." 

There  was  never  any  doubt  about  Mrs.  Sydney  Bam- 
borough. She  was  aristocratic  to  the  tips  of  her  dainty 
white  fingers — composed,  gentle,  and  quite  sure  of  her- 
self. Quite  the  grand  lady,  as  Lady  Mealhead  said. 
But  Mrs.  Sydney  Bamborough  did  not  know  Lady  Meal- 
head,  which  may  have  accounted  for  the  titled  woman's 
little  sniff  of  interrogation.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  Etta 
Sydney  Bamborough  came  from  excellent  ancestry,  and 
could  claim  an  uncle  here,  a  cousin  there,  and  a  number 
of  distant  relatives  eveiywhere,  should  it  be  worth  the 
while. 

It  was  safe  to  presume  that  she  was  rich  from  the 
manner  in  which  she  dressed,  the  number  of  servants 
and  horses  she  kept,  the  general  air  of  wonlth  which 
pervaded  her  existence.  That  she  was  beautiful  any  one 
could  see  for  himself — not  in  the  sho])-wind(nvs,  among 
the  presumably  self-selected  types  of  English  beauty, 
but  in  the  proper  place — namely,  in  her  own  and  other 
aristocratic  drawinfr-rooms. 


24  THE     SOWERS 

She  was  talking  to  a  tall,  fair  Frencliman — in  perfect 
French — and  was  herself  nearly  as  tall  as  he.  Bright 
brown  hair  waved  prettily  back  from  a  white  forehead, 
clever,  dark  gray  eyes  and  a  lovely  complexion — one  of 
those  complexions  whicli,  from  a  purity  of  conscience  or 
a  steadiness  of  nerve,  never  change.  Cheeks  of  a  faint 
pink,  an  expressive,  mobile  month,  a  neck  of  dazzling 
white.  Sucli  was  Mrs.  Sydney  Bamborough,  in  the 
prime  of  her  youth. 

"  And  you  maintain  that  it  is  live  years  since  we  met," 
she  was  saying  to  the  tall  Frenchman. 

"Have  I  not  counted  every  day  ?  "  he  replied. 

"  I  do  not  know,"  she  answered,  with  a  little  laugh, 
that  little  laugh  whicli  tells  wise  men  where  flattery 
maybe  shot  like  so  much  conversational  rubbish.  Some 
women  are  fathomless  pits,  the  rubbish  never  seems  to 
fill  them.     "  I  do  not  know,  but  I  should  not  think  so." 

"  Well,  madam,  it  is  so.  Witness  these  gray  hairs. 
Ah  !  those  were  happy  days  in  St.  Petersburg." 

Mrs.  Sydney  Bamborough  smiled — a  pleasant  society 
smile,  not  too  pronounced  and  just  sufficient  to  suggest 
pearly  teeth.  At  the  mention  of  St.  Petersburg  she 
glanced  round  to  see  that  they  were  not  overheard. 
She  gave  a  little  shiver. 

"  Don't  speak  of  Russia  !  "  she  pleaded.  "I  hate  to 
hear  it  mentioned.  I  was  so  happy.  It  is  painful  to 
remember." 

Even  while  she  spoke  tlie  expression  of  her  face 
changed  to  one  of  gay  delight.  She  nodded  and  smiled 
toward  a  tall  man  who  Avas  evidently  looking  for  her, 
and  took  no  notice  of  the  Frenchman's  apologies. 

"  Who  is  that  ?  "  asked  the  young  man.  "  I  see  him 
everywhere  lately." 

"  A  mere  English  gentleman,  Mr.  Paul  Howard  Alexis," 
replied  the  lady. 

The  Frenchman  raised  his  eyebrows.     He  knew  better. 


DirLOMATIC  25 

This  was  no  plain  English  gentleman.  He  bowetl  and 
took  his  leave.  M.  de  Chauxville  of  the  French  Embassy 
was  watching  every  movement,  every  change  of  expres- 
sion, from  across  the  room. 

In  evening  dress  the  man  whom  we  last  saw  on  the 
platform  of  the  railway  station  at  Tver  did  not  look  so 
nnmistakably  English.  It  was  more  evident  that  he 
had  inherited  certain  characteristics  from  his  Russian 
mother — notabl}^,  his  great  lieight,  a  physical  advantage 
enjoyed  by  many  aristocratic  Russian  families.  His 
hair  was  fair  and  inclined  to  curl,  and  there  the  foreign 
suggestion  suddenly  ceased.  His  face  had  the  quiet 
concentration,  the  unobtrusive  self-absorption  which  one 
sees  more  strongly  marked  in  English  faces  than  in  any 
others.  His  manner  of  moving  through  the  well-dressed 
crowd  somewhat  belied  the  tan  of  his  skin.  Here  was 
an  out-of-door,  athletic  youth,  w4io  knew  how  to  move 
in  drawing-rooms — a  big  man  Avho  did  not  look  much 
too  large  for  his  surroundings.  It  was  evident  that  he 
did  not  know  many  people,  and  also  that  he  was  indif- 
ferent to  his  loss.  He  had  come  to  see  Mrs.  Sydney 
Bamborough,  and  that  lady  was  not  insensible  to  the  fact. 

To  prove  this  she  diverged  from  the  path  of  veracity, 
as  is  the  way  of  some  women. 

"  I  did  not  expect  to  see  you  here,"  she  said. 

"  You  told  me  you  were  coming,"  he  answered  simplj^ 
The  inference  would  have  been  enough  for  some  women, 
but  not  for  Etta  Sydney  Bamborough. 

"  Well,  is  that  a  reason  why  you  should  attend  a 
diplomatic  soiree,  and  force  yourself  to  bow  and  smirk 
to  a  number  of  white-handed  little  dandies  whom  j^ou 
despise  ?  " 

"  The  best  reason,"  he  answered  quietly,  with  an 
honesty  which  somehow  touched  her  as  nothing  else  had 
touched  this  beautiful  woman  since  she  had  become 
aware  of  her  beauty. 


26  THE     SOWERS 

"  Then  you  tliiiik  it  wortli  tlie  bowing  and  the  smirk- 
ing ?  "  she  asked,  looking  past  liini  with  innocent  eyes. 
Slie  made  an  imperceptible  little  movement  toward  him 
as  if  she  expected  him  to  whisper.  She  was  of  that 
school.  But  he  was  not.  His  was  not  the  sort  of  mind 
to  conceive  any  thought  that  required  Avhispering. 
Some  persons  in  fact  went  so  far  as  to  say  that  he  was 
hopelessly  dull,  tliat  he  had  no  subtlety  of  thought,  no 
brightness,  no  conversation.  These  persons  were  no 
doubt  ladies  upon  whom  he  had  failed  to  lavish  the 
exceedingly  small  change  of  compliment. 

"  It  is  worth  that  and  more,"  he  replied,  with  his  ready 
smile.  *'  After  all,  bowing  and  smirking  come  very  easily. 
One  soon  gets  accustomed  to  it." 

"  One  has  to,"  she  replied  with  a  little  sigh.  "  Espe- 
cially if  one  is  a  woman,  which  little  misha])  comes  to 
some  of  us,  you  know.  I  wonder  if  you  could  find  me  a 
chair." 

She  was  standing  with  her  back  to  a  small  sofa  capable 
of  holding  three,  but  calculated  to  accommodate  two. 
She  did  not  of  course  see  it.  In  fact  she  looked  every- 
where but  toward  it,  raising  her  perfectly  gloved  lingers 
tentativel}''  for  his  arm. 

"  I  am  tired  of  standing,"  she  added. 

He  turned  and  indicated  the  sofa,  toward  which  she 
immediately  advanced.  As  slie  sat  down  he  noted 
vaguely  that  she  was  exquisitelj^  dressed,  certainly  one 
of  the  best  dressed  women  in  the  room.  Her  costume 
was  daring  without  being  startling,  being  merely  black 
and  white  largel}^,  boldly  contrasted.  He  felt  indefinitely 
proud  of  the  dress.  Some  instinct  in  the  man's  simple, 
strong  mind  told  him  that  it  was  good  for  women  to  be 
beautiful,  but  his  ignorance  of  the  sex  being  profound 
lie  had  no  desire  to  analyze  the  beaut}^  He  had  no 
mental  reservation  with  regard  to  her.  Indeed  it  would 
have  been   hard  to  lind    fault  with  Ktta  Sydney  Uani- 


DirLOMATlC  27 

borough,  looking  upon  ber  merely  as  a  beautiful  wotnan, 
exquisitely  dressed.  In  a  cynical  age  ibis  man  was 
witbout  cynicism.  He  did  not  dream  of  reflecting  tbat 
tbe  lovely  bair  owed  balf  its  beauty  to  tbe  clever  ban- 
dling  of  a  maid,  tbat  tbe  perfect  dress  bad  been  tbe  all- 
absorbing  topic  of  many  of  its  wearer's  leisure  bours. 
He  was,  in  fact,  young  for  bis  years,  and  wbat  is  youth 
but  a  happy  ignorance  ?  It  is  only  when  we  know  too 
much  tbat  Gravity  marks  us  for  her  own, 

Mrs.  Sydney  Bamborougb  looked  up  at  him  with  a 
certain  admiration.  This  man  was  like  a  mountain 
breeze  to  one  who  has  breathed  nothing  but  the  faded 
air  of  drawing-rooms. 

She  drew  in  her  train  with  a  pretty  curve  of  her  gloved 
wrist. 

"  You  look  as  if  you  did  not  know  Avhat  it  was  to  be 
tired  ;  but  perhaps  you  will  sit  down.  I  can  make 
room." 

He  accepted  with  alacrity. 

"  And  now,"  she  said,  "  let  me  bear  where  you  have 
been.  I  have  oiil}^  had  time  to  shake  bands  with  you 
the  last  twice  that  we  have  met !  You  said  you  bad 
been  away." 

"  Yes  ;  I  have  been  to  Russia." 

Her  face  was  steadily  beautiful,  composed  and  ready. 
"  Ah  !     How   interesting  !     I   have   been    in   Peters- 
burg.    I  love  Russia."     While  she  spoke  she  was  actu- 
ally looking  across  the  room  toward  the  tall  Frenchman, 
her  late  companion. 

"  Do  you  ?  "  answered  Paul  eagerly.  His  face  lighted 
up  after  tbe  manner  of  those  countenances  that  belong 
to  men  of  one  idea.  "  I  am  very  much  interested  in 
Russia." 

"Do  you  know  Petersburg?"  she  asked  ratlier  bur- 
riedl}^     "  I  moan — society  there  ?" 

"No.     I  know  one  or  two  people  in  Moscow." 


28  THE     SOWEES 

Slie  nodded,  suppressing  a  quick  little  sigh  which 
might  have  been  one  of  relief  had  her  face  been  less 
pleasant  and  smiling. 

"  Who  ?  "  she  asked  indifferently.  She  was  interested 
in  the  lace  of  her  pocket-handkerchief,  of  which  the 
scent  faintly  reached  him.  lie  was  a  simple  person,  and 
the  faint  odor  gave  him  a  distinct  pleasure — a  suggested 
intimacy. 

He  mentioned  several  well-known  Muscovite  names, 
and  she  broke  into  a  sudden  laugh. 

"  How  terrible  they  sound,"  she  said  gayl}^  "  even 
to  me,  and  I  have  been  to  Petersburg.  But  you  speak 
Russian,  Mr.  Alexis?" 

"  Yes,"  he  answered.     "  And  you  ?  " 

She  shook  her  head  and  gave  a  little  sigh. 

**  I  ?     Oh,  no.     I  am  not  at  all  clever,  I  am  afraid." 


CHAPTER  IV 

DON    QUIXOTE 

Paul  had  been  five  montlis  in  England  when  he  met 
Mrs.  Sydney  Bamborough.  Since  his  liurried  departure 
from  Tver  a  winter  had  come  and  gone,  leaving  its  mark 
as  winters  do.  It  left  a  very  distinct  mark  on  Russia. 
It  was  a  famine  winter.  From  the  snow-ridden  plains 
that  lie  to  the  north  of  Moscow,  Karl  Steinmetz  had 
written  piteous  descriptions  of  an  existence  which 
seemed  hardly  worth  the  living.  But  each  letter  had 
terminated  with  a  prayer,  remarkably  near  to  a  com- 
mand, that  he,  Paul  Howard  Alexis,  should  remain  in 
England.  So  Paul  stayed  in  London,  where  he  in- 
dulged to  the  full  a  sadly  mistaken  hobby.  This  man 
had,  as  we  have  seen,  that  which  is  called  a  crank,  or  a 
loose  screw,  according  to  the  fancy  of  tlie  speaker.  He 
had  conceived  the  absurd  idea  of  benefiting  l«s  fellow- 
beings,  and  of  turning  into  that  mistaken  channel  the 
surplus  wealth  that  was  his.  This,  moreover,  if  it 
please  you,  without  so  much  as  forming  himself  into  a 
society. 

This  is  an  age  of  societies,  and,  far  from  concealing 
from  the  left  hand  the  good  which  the  right  may  be 
doing,  we  publish  abroad  our  charities  on  all  handso 
We  publish  in  a  stout  volume  our  names  and  donations. 
We  even  go  so  far  as  to  cultivate  an  artificial  charity  by 
meat  and  drink  and  speeches  withal.  When  we  have 
eaten  and  drunk,  the  plate  is  handed  round,  and  from 
the  fulness  of  our  heart  we  give  abun(lantl3\  We  are 
cunning  even  in  our  well-doing.     We  do  not  pass  round 


30  THE     SOAVEES 

the  plfite  until  the  clecfiiiters  liave  led  the  wa5^  And 
thus  we  degrade  that  quality  of  the  human  lieart  which 
is  the  best  of  all. 

But  Paul  Howard  Alexis  had  the  good  fortune  to  be 
rich  out  of  England,  and  that  roaring  lion  of  modern 
days,  organized  charity,  passed  him  by.  He  was  thus 
left  to  evolve  from  his  own  mind  a  mistaken  sense  of 
his  duty  toward  his  neighbor.  That  there  were  thou- 
sands of  well-meaning  persons  in  black  and  other  coats 
ready  to  prove  to  him  that  revenues  gathered  from 
Russia  should  be  spent  in  the  East  End  or  the  East 
Indies,  goes  without  saying.  There  are  always  well- 
meaning  persons  among  us  ready  to  direct  the  charity 
of  others.  We  have  all  met  those  virtuous  persons  who 
do  good  by  proxy.  But  Paul  had  not.  He  had  never 
come  face  to  face  with  the  charity  broker — the  man  who 
stands  between  the  needy  and  the  giver,  giving  nothing 
himself,  and  living  on  his  brokerage,  sitting  in  a  com- 
fortable chair,  with  his  feet  on  a  Turkey  carpet  in  his 
office  on  a  main  thoroughfare.  Paul  had  met  none  of 
these,  and  the  only  organized  charity  of  which  he  was 
cognizant  was  the  great  Russian  Charity  League,  be- 
trayed six  months  earlier  to  a  government  which  has 
ever  turned  its  face  against  education  and  enlighten- 
ment. In  this  he  had  taken  no  active  part,  but  he  had 
given  largely  of  his  great  wealth.  That  his  name  had 
fiirured  on  the  list  of  families  sold  for  a  vast  sum  of 
money  to  the  authorities  of  the  Ministry  ot  the  Interioi* 
seemed  all  too  sure.  But  he  had  had  no  intimation 
that  he  was  looked  upon  with  small  favor.  The  more 
active  members  of  the  League  had  been  less  fortunate, 
and  more  than  one  nobleman  had  been  banished  to  his 
estates. 

Although  the  sum  actually  paid  for  the  papers  of  the 
Charity  League  was  known,  the  recipient  of  the  blood 
money  had  never  been  discovered.     It  was  a  large  suiUj 


DON    QUIXOTE  31 

for  the  government  had  been  quick  to  recognize  tlio 
necessity  of  nipping  tliis  movement  in  the  bud.  Edu- 
cation is  a  dangerous  matter  to  deal  with  ;  England  is 
beginning  to  find  this  out  for  herself.  For  on  the  heels 
of  education  socialism  ever  treads.  When  at  last  edu- 
cation makes  a  foothold  in  Russia,  that  foothold  will  be 
on  the  very  step  of  the  autocratic  throne.  The  Charity 
League  had,  as  Steinmetz  put  it,  the  primary  object  of 
preparing  the  peasant  for  education,  and  thereafter 
placing  education  within  his  reach.  Such  proceedings 
were  naturally  held  by  those  in  liigh  places  to  be  only 
second  to  Nihilism. 

All  this,  and  more  which  shall  transpire  in  the  course 
of  this  narration,  was  known  to  Paul.  In  face  of  the 
fact  that  his  name  was  prominently  before  the  Russian 
Ministry  of  the  Interior,  he  proceeded  all  through  the 
winter  to  ship  road-making  tools,  agricultural  imple- 
ments, seeds,  and  food. 

*'  The  prince,"  said  Steinmetz  to  those  who  were 
interested  in  the  matter,  "  is  mad.  lie  thinks  that  a 
Russian  principality  is  to  be  worked  on  the  same  system 
as  an  English  estate." 

He  would  laugh  and  shrug  his  shoulders,  and  then  he 
would  sit  down  and  send  a  list  of  further  requirements 
to  Paul  Howard  Alexis,  Esquire,  in  London. 

Paul  had  met  Mrs.  Sydney  Bamborough  on  one  or 
two  occasions,  and  had  been  interested  in  her.  From 
the  first  he  had  come  under  the  influence  of  her  beauty. 
But  she  was  then  a  married  woman.  He  met  her  again 
toward  the  end  of  the  terrible  winter  to  which  refer- 
ence has  been  made,  and  found  that  a  mere  acquaint- 
anceship had  in  the  meantime  developed  into  friendship. 
He  could  not  have  told  when  and  where  the  great  social 
barrier  had  been  surmounted  and  left  behind.  He  only 
knew  in  an  indefinite  way  that  some  such  change  had 
taken  place,  as  all  such  changes  do,  not  in  intercourse, 


32  THE     SOWERS 

but  in  the  intervals  of  absence.  It  is  a  singular  fact 
that  we  do  not  make  our  friends  when  they  are  near. 
The  seed  of  friendship  and  love  alike  is  soon  sown,  and 
the  best  is  tliat  which  germinates  in  absence. 

That  friendship  liad  rapidly  developed  into  something 
else  Paul  became  aware  early  in  the  season  ;  and,  as  we 
have  seen  from  his  conversation,  Mrs.  Sydney  Bam- 
borough,  innocent  and  guileless  as  she  was,  might  with 
all  modesty  have  divined  the  state  of  his  feelings  had 
she  been  less  overshadowed  by  her  widow's  weeds. 

She  apparently  had  no  such  suspicion,  for  she  asked 
Paul  in  all  good  faith  to  call  the  next  day  and  tell  her 
all  about  Russia — "  dear  Russia." 

"  My  cousin  Maggie,"  she  added,  "  is  staying  with 
me.     She  is  a  dear  girl.     I  am  sure  you  will  like  her." 

Paul  accepted  with  alacrity,  but  reserved  to  himself 
the  option  of  hating  Mrs.  Sydney  Bamborough's  cousin 
Maggie,  merely  because  that  young  lady  existed  and 
happened  to  be  staying  in  Upper  Brook  Street. 

At  five  o'clock  the  next  afternoon  he  presented  him- 
self at  the  house  of  mourning,  and  completely  filled  up 
its  small  entrance-hall. 

He  was  shown  into  the  drawing-room,  where  he  dis- 
covered Miss  Margaret  Delafield  in  the  act  of  dragging 
her  hat  off  in  front  of  the  mirror  over  the  mantelpiece. 
He  heard  a  suppressed  exclamation  of  amused  horror, 
and  found  himself  shaking  hands  with  Mrs.  Sydney 
Bamborough. 

The  lady  mentioned  Paul's  name  and  her  cousin's 
relationship  in  that  casual  manner  which  constitutes  an 
Introduction  in  these  degenerate  days.  Miss  Delafield 
bowed,  laughed,  and  moved  toward  the  door.  She  left 
the  room,  and  behind  her  an  impression  of  breeziness 
and  healtli,  of  English  girlhood  and  a  certain  bright 
cheerfulness  which  acts  as  a  filter  in  social  muddy 
waters. 


DON    QUIXOTE  33 

"  It  is  ven^  good  of  you  to  come — I  was  moping," 
said  Mrs.  Sydney  Baniborougli.  Slie  was,  as  a  matter 
of  fact,  resting  before  the  work  of  the  evening.  Tliis 
lady  thoroughly  understood  the  art  of  being  beautiful. 

Paul  did  not  answer  at  once.  He  was  looking  at  a 
large  photograph  which  stood  in  a  frame  on  the  mantel- 
piece—the photograph  of  a  handsome  man  of  twenty- 
eight  or  thirty,  small-featured,  fair,  and  sliifty  looking. 

"  Who  is  that  ?  "  he  asked  abruptly. 

"  Do  you  not  know  ?     My  husband." 

Paul  muttered  an  apology,  but  he  did  not  turn  away 
from  the  photograph. 

"  Oh,  never  mind,"  said  Mrs.  Sydney  Bamborough,  in 
reply  to  his  regret  that  he  had  stumbled  upon  a  painful 
subject.     "  I  never " 

She  paused. 

"  No,"  she  went  on,  "  I  won*t  say  that." 

But,  so  far  as  conveying  what  she  meant  was  con- 
cerned, she  might  just  as  well  have  uttered  the 
words. 

"  I  do  not  want  a  sympathy  which  is  unmerited,"  she 
said  gravely. 

He  turned  and  looked  at  her,  sitting  in  a  graceful 
attitude,  the  incarnation  of  a  most  refined  and  nine- 
teenth-century misfortune.  She  raised  her  ej^es  to  his 
for  a  moment — a  sort  of  photographic  instantaneous 
shutter,  exposing  for  the  hundredth  part  of  a  second 
the  sensitive  plate  of  her  heart.  Then  she  suppressed  a 
sigh — badly. 

"  I  was  married  horribly  young,"  she  said,  "  before  I 
knew  what  I  was  doing.  But  even  if  I  had  known  I  do 
not  suppose  I  should  have  had  the  strength  of  mind  to 
resist  my  father  and  mother." 

"  Tliey  forced  you  into  it  ?  " 

"  Yes,"   said  Mrs.  Bamborough.     And  it  is  possible 
that  a  respectable  and  harmless  pair  of  corpses  turned 
3 


34  THE     SOWERS 

in  their  respective  coffins  somewhere  in  the  neighbor- 
hood of  Norwood. 

"  I  liope  there  is  a  special  hell  reserved  for  parents 
who  ruin  their  daughters'  lives  to  suit  their  own  ambi- 
tion," said  Paul,  with  a  sudden  concentrated  heat  which 
rather  startled  his  hearer. 

This  man  was  full  of  surprises  for  Etta  Sydney  Bam- 
borough.  It  was  like  playing  with  fire — a  form  of 
amusement  which  will  be  popular  as  long  as  feminine 
curiosity  sliall  last. 

"  You  are  rather  shocking,"  she  said  lightly.  "  But 
it  is  all  over  now,  so  we  need  not  dig  up  old  grievances. 
Only  I  want  3'ou  to  understand  that  that  photograph 
represents  a  part  of  my  life  which  was  only  painful — 
notliing  else." 

Paul,  standing  in  front  of  her,  looked  down  thought- 
fully at  the  beautiful  upturned  face.  His  liands  were 
clasped  behind  him,  his  firm  mouth  set  sternly  beneath 
the  great  fair  mustache.  In  Russia  the  men  have  good 
eyes — blue,  fierce,  intelligent.  Such  eyes  had  the  son 
of  the  Princess  Alexis.  There  was  something  in  Etta 
Bamborough  that  stirred  up  within  him  a  quality  which 
men  are  slowly  losing — namely,  chivalry.  Steinmetz 
held  that  this  man  was  quixotic,  and  what  Steinmetz 
said  was  usually  worth  some  small  attention.  What- 
ever faults  that  poor  knight  of  La  Mancha  who  has 
been  the  laughing-stock  of  the  world  these  many  cen- 
turies— whatever  faults  or  foolishness  may  have  been 
his,  he  was  at  all  events  a  gentleman. 

Paul's  instinct  was  to  pity  this  woman  for  the  past 
that  had  been  hers  ;  his  desire  was  to  help  her  and  pro- 
tect her,  to  watch  over  her  and  fight  her  battles  for  her. 
It  was  what  is  called  Love.  But  there  is  no  word  in 
any  spoken  language  that  covers  so  M^ide  a  field.  Every 
day  and  all  day  we  call  many  things  love  which  are  not 
love.     The  real  thing  is  as  rare  as  genius,  but  we  usually 


DON    QUIXOTE  35 

fail  to  recognize  its  l•arit3^  We  misuse  the  word,  for 
we  fail  to  draw  tlic  necessary  distinctions.  We  fail  to 
recognize  the  plain  and  simple  truth  that  many  of  us 
are  not  able  to  love — just  as  there  are  many  who  are 
not  able  to  play  the  piano  or  to  sing.  We  raise  up  our 
voices  and  make  a  sound,  but  it  is  not  singing.  We 
marry  and  we  give  in  marriage,  but  it  is  not  loving. 
Love  is  like  a  color — sa}^  blue.  There  are  a  tliousand 
shades  of  blue,  and  the  outer  shades  are  at  last  not 
bUie  at  all,  but  green  or  purple.  So  in  love  there  are  a 
thousand  shades,  and  very,  very  few  of  them  are  worthy 
of  the  namCo 

That  which  Paul  Howard  Alexis  felt  at  this  time  for 
Etta  was  merely  the  chivalrous  instinct  that  teaches 
men  their  primary  duty  toward  women — namel}^  to 
protect  and  respect  them.  But  out  of  this  instinct 
grows  the  better  thing — Love. 

There  are  some  women  Avhose  desire  it  is  to  be  all 
things  to  all  men  instead  of  every  thing  to  one.  This 
was  the  stumbling-block  in  the  way  of  Etta  Barn- 
borough.  It  Avas  her  instinct  to  please  all  at  an}^  price, 
and  her  obedience  to  such  instinct  was  often  uncon- 
scious.  She  hardly  knew  perhaps  that  she  was  trading 
upon  a  sense  of  chivalry  rare  in  these  days,  but  had  she 
known  she  could  not  have  traded  with  a  keener  compre- 
hension of  the  commerce. 

"  I  should  like  to  forget  the  past  altogether,"  she 
said.  "  But  it  is  hard  for  women  to  get  rid  of  the  past. 
It  is  rather  terrible  to  feel  that  one  will  be  associated 
all  one's  life  with  a  person  for  whom  no  one  had  any 
respect.     He  was  not  Honorable  or " 

She  paused  ;  for  the  intuition  of  some  women  is 
marvellous.  A  slight  change  of  countenance  had  told 
her  that  cliarity,  especially  toward  the  dead,  is  a  com- 
mendable quality. 

"  The  world,"  she  went  on  rather  hurriedly,  "  never 


36  THE     SOWERS 

makes  allowances — does  it  ?  He  was  easily  led,  I  sup- 
pose. And  people  said  things  of  liini  that  were  not 
true.  Did  you  ever  hear  of  him  in  Russia — of  the 
things  they  said  of  him?" 

She  waited  for  the  answer  with  suppressed  eagerness 
— a  good  woman  defending  the  memory  of  her  dead 
husband— a  fair  lioness  protecting  her  cub. 

"  No  ;  I  never  hear  Russian  gossip.  I  know  no  one 
in  St.  Petersburg,  and  few  in  Moscow." 

She  gave  a  little  sigh  of  relief. 

"  Then  perhaps  poor  Sydney's  delinquencies  have  been 
forgotten,"  she  said.  "  In  six  months  every  thing  is 
forgotten  now.  He  has  only  been  dead  six  months,  you 
know.     He  died  in  Russia." 

All  the  while  she  was  watching  his  face.  She  had 
moved  in  a  circle  where  everything  is  known — where 
men  have  faces  of  iron  and  nerves  of  steel  to  conceal 
what  they  know.  She  could  hardly  believe  that  Paul 
Alexis  knew  so  little  as  he  pretended. 

"  So  I  heard  a  month  ago,"  he  said. 

In  a  flash  of  thought  Etta  remembered  that  it  was 
only  within  the  last  four  weeks  that  this  admirer  had 
betrayed  his  admiration.  Could  this  be  that  phenome- 
non of  the  three-volume  novel,  an  honorable  man?  She 
looked  at  him  with  curiosity — without,  it  is  to  be 
feared,  much  Vespect. 

"And  now,"  she  said  cheerfull}^,  "let  us  change  the 
subject.  I  have  inflicted  enough  of  mj^self  and  my 
affairs  upon  you  for  one  day.  Tell  me  about  yourself. 
Why  were  you  in  Russia  last  summer  ?  " 

"  I  am  half  a  Russian,"  he  answered.  "  My  mother 
was  Russian,  and  I  have  estates  there." 

Her  surjjrise  was  a  triumph  of  art. 

"  Oh  !  You  are  not  Prince  Pavlo  Alexis  ? "  she 
exclaimed. 

"  Yes,  I  am." 


DON    QUIXOTE  37 

She  rose  and  swept  liim  a  deep  courtesy,  to  the  full 
advantage  of  her  beautiful  figure. 

"  My  respects — mon  prince,"  slie  said  ;  and  then, 
quick  as  lightning,  for  she  had  seen  displeasure  on  his 
face,  she  broke  into  a  merry  laugh. 

"  No,  I  won't  call  you  that  ;  for  I  know  you  hate  it.. 
I  have  heard  of   your  prejudices,  and   if   it   is  of  the 
slightest    interest    to    you,   I   think   1   rather    admire 
them." 

It  is  to  be  presumed  that  Mrs.  Sydney  Bamborough's 
memory  was  short.  For  it  was  a  matter  of  common 
knowledge  in  the  diplomatic  circles  in  which  she  moved 
that  Mr.  Paul  Howard  Alexis  of  Piccadilly  House, 
London,  and  Prince  Pavlo  Alexis  of  the  province  of 
Tver,  were  one  and  the  same  man. 

Having,  however,  fully  established  this  fact,  from  the 
evidence  of  her  own  ears,  she  conversed  very  pleasantly 
and  innocently  upon  matters,  Russian  and  English,  until 
other  visitors  arrived  and  Paul  withdrew. 


CHAPTER  V 

THE   BARON 

Among  the  visitors  whom  Paul  left  behind  him  in  the 
little  drawing-room  in  Brook  Street  was  the  Baron 
Claude  de  Chauxville,  Baron  of  Chauxville  and  Chaux- 
ville  le  Due,  in  the  Province  of  Seine-et-Marne,  France, 
attache  to  the  French  Embassy  to  the  Court  of  St. 
James  ;  before  men  a  rising  diplomatist,  before  God  a 
scoundrel.  This  gentleman  remained  when  the  other 
visitors  had  left,  and  Miss  Maggie  Delaiield,  seeing  his 
intention  of  prolonging  a  visit  of  which  she  had  already- 
had  sufficient,  made  an  inadequate  excuse  and  left  the 
room. 

Miss  Delafield,  being  a  healthj^-minded  young  English 
person  of  that  simplicity  which  is  no  simplicity  at  all, 
but  merely  simple-heartedness,  had  her  own  ideas  of 
what  a  man  should  be,  and  M.  de  Chauxville  had  the 
misfortune  to  fall  short  of  those  ideas.  He  w^as  too 
epigrammatic  for  her,  and  beneath  the  brilliancy  of  his 
epigram  she  felt  at  times  the  presence  of  something 
dark  and  nauseous.  Her  mental  attitude  toward  him 
was  contemptuous  and  perfectly  polite.  With  the 
reputation  of  possessing  a  dangerous  fascination — one 
of  those  reputations  which  can  only  emanate  from  the 
man  himself — M.  de  Chauxville  neither  fascinated  nor 
intimidated  Miss  Delafield.  He  therefore  disliked  lier 
intensely.  His  vanity  was  colossal,  and  when  a  French- 
man is  vain  he  is  childishly  so. 

M.  de  Chauxville  watched  the  door  close  behind  Miss 
Delafiehl  with  a  queer  smile.  Then  he  turned  suddenly 
on  his  heels  and  faced  Mrs.  Sydney  Bamborougii. 


THE    BARON  39 

"Your  cousin,"  he  said,  "  is  a  typical  Englisliwoman — 
she  only  conceals  her  love." 

"For  you?"  enquired  Mrs.  Sydney  Bamborough. 

The  baron  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"Possibly.  One  can  never  tell.  Slie  conceals  it  very 
well  if  it  exists.  However,  I  am  indifferent.  The  virtue 
of  the  violet  is  its  own  reward,  perhaps,  for  the  rose 
always  wins." 

He  crossed  the  room  toward  Mrs.  Sydney  Bam- 
borougli,  who  was  standing  near  the  mantelpiece.  Her 
left  hand  was  hanging  idly  by  her  side.  He  took  the 
white  fingers  and  gallantly  raised  them  to  his  lips,  but 
before  they  had  reached  that  fount  of  truth  and  wisdom 
she  jerked  her  hand  away. 

M.  de  Chauxville  laughed — the  quiet,  assured  laugh  of 
a  man  who  has  read  in  books  that  he  who  is  bold  enough 
can  win  any  woman,  and  believes  it.  He  was  of  tliose 
men  who  treat  and  speak  of  women  as  a  class — creatures 
to  be  dealt  with  successfully  according  to  generality  and 
maxim.  It  is  a  singular  thing,  by  the  way,  that  men  as 
a  whole  continue  to  disbelieve  in  a  woman's  negative — 
singular,  that  is,  when  one  reflects  that  the  majority  of 
men  have  had  at  least  one  negative  which  has  remained 
a  negative,  so  far  as  they  were  concerned,  all  the 
woman's  life. 

."I am  aware," said  M.  de  Chauxville,  "that  the  rose  has 
thorns.     One  reason  why  the  violet  is  hors  de  concours." 

Etta  smiled — almost  relenting.  She  was  never  quite 
safe  against  her  own  vanity.  Happy  the  woman  who  is, 
and  rare. 

"  I  suspect  that  the  violet  is  innocent  of  any  desire  to 
enter  into  competition,"  said  Etta. 

"  Knowing,"  suggested  De  Chauxville,  "  that  although 
the  race  is  not  always  to  the  swift,  it  is  usually  so. 
Please  do  not  stand.  It  suggests  that  you  are  waiting 
for  me  to  go  or  for  some  one  else  to  come." 


40  THE    SOWERS 

"Neither." 

*'  Then  prove  it  by  taking  this  chair.  Thus.  Neai 
the  fire,  for  it  is  quite  an  English  spring.  A  footstool. 
Is  it  permitted  to  admire  3'our  slippers — what  there  is  of 
them  ?     Now  you  look  comfortable." 

He  attended  to  her  wants,  divined  them,  and  perliaps 
created  them  with  a  perfect  grace  and  much  too  intimate 
a  knowledge.  As  a  carpet  knight  he  was  faultless. 
And  Etta  thought  of  Paul,  who  could  do  none  of  these 
things — or  would  do  none  of  them — Paul,  who  never 
made  her  feel  like  a  doll. 

"  Will  you  not  sit  down  ?  "  she  said,  indicating  a 
chair,  which  he  did  not  take.  He  selected  one  nearer  to 
her. 

"  1  can  think  of  nothing  more  desirable." 

"  Than  what  ?  "  she  asked.  Her  vanity  was  like  a 
hungry  fish.     It  rose  to  everything. 

"  A  chair  in  this  room." 

"  A  modest  desire,"  she  said.  "  Is  that  really  all  you 
want  in  this  world  ?  " 

"  No,"  he  answered,  looking  at  her. 

She  gave  a  little  laugh  and  moved  rather  luirriedly. 

"  I  was  going  to  suggest  that  you  could  have  both  at 
certain  fixed  periods — whenever — I  am  out." 

"  I  am  glad  you  did  not  suggest  it." 

"  Why  ?  "  she  asked  sharply. 

"  Because  I  should  have  had  to  go  into  explanations. 
I  did  not  say  all." 

Mrs.  Bamborough  was  looking  into  the  fire,  onh'  half 
listening  to  him.  There  was  something  in  the  nature  of 
a  duel  between  these  two.  Each  thought  more  of  the 
next  stroke  than  of  the  present  party. 

"  Do  you  ever  say  all,  M.  de  Chauxville?  "  she  asked. 

The  baron  laughed.  Perhaps  he  w^as  vain  of  the 
reputation  that  was  his,  for  this  man  was  held  to  be 
a  finished    diplomatist.     A  finished    diplomatist,   be  it 


THE    BARON  41 

known,  is  one  who  is  a  dangerous  foe  and  an  unreliable 
friend. 

"  Perhaps — now  that  I  reflect  upon  it,"  continued  the 
clever  woman,  disliking  the  clever  man's  silence,  "  the 
person  who  said  all  would  be  intolerable." 

"  There  are  some  things  which  go  without  it,"  said  De 
Chauxville. 

"  Ah  ?"  looking  lazily  back  at  him  over  her  shoulder. 

"  Yes." 

He  was  cautious,  for  he  was  fighting  on  a  field  which 
women  may  rightly  claim  for  their  own.  He  really 
loved  Etta.  He  was  trying  to  gauge  the  meaning  of 
a  little  change  in  her  tone  toward  him — a  change  so 
subtle  that  few  men  could  have  detected  it.  But 
Claude  de  Chauxville — accomplished  steersman  through 
the  shoals  of  human  nature,  especially  through  those 
very  pronounced  shoals  who  call  themselves  women  of 
the  world — Claude  de  Chauxville  knew  the  value  of  the 
slightest  change  of  manner,  should  that  change  manifest 
itself  more  than  once. 

The  ring  of  indifference,  or  something  dangerously 
near  it,  in  Etta's  voice  had  first  been  noticeable  the 
previous  evening,  and  the  attache  knew  it.  It  had  been 
in  her  voice  whenever  she  spoke  to  him  then.  It  was 
there  now. 

"  Some  things,"  he  continued,  in  a  voice  she  had  never 
heard  before,  for  this  man  was  innately  artificial,  "which 
a  woman  usually  knows  before  they  are  told  to  her." 

"  What  sort  of  things,  M.  le  Baron  ?  " 

He  gave  a  little  laugh.  It  was  so  strange  a  thing 
to  him  to  be  sincere  that  he  felt  awkward  and  abashed. 
He  was  surprised  at  his  own  sincerity. 

"  That  I  love  you — hum.  You  have  known  it 
long?" 

The  face  which  he  could  not  see  was  not  quite  the 
face  of  a  good  woman.     Etta  was  smilinGf. 


42  THE     SOWEES 

"  No — o,"  she  almost  wliispered. 

"  I  tliiiik  you  must  have  known  it,"  he  corrected 
suavely.  "  Will  you  do  me  the  honor  of  becoming  my 
wife  ?  " 

It  was  very  correctly  done.  Claude  de  Chauxville 
had  regained  control  over  himself.  He  was  able  to 
think  about  the  riches  which  were  evidently  hers.  But 
through  the  thought  he  loved  the  woman. 

The  lady  lowered  the  feather  screen  which  she  was 
holding  between  her  face  and  the  fire.  Regardless  of 
the  imminent  danger  in  which  she  was  placing  her  com- 
plexion, she  studied  the  glowing  cinders  for  some 
moments,  weighing  something  or  some  persons  in  her 
mind. 

"  No,  my  friend,"  she  answ^ered  in  French,  at  length. 

The  baron's  face  was  drawn  and  white.  Beneath  his 
trim  black  mustache  there  was  a  momentary  gleam  of 
sharp  white  teeth  as  he  bit  his  lip. 

He  came  nearer  to  her,  leaning  one  hand  on  the  back 
of  her  chair,  looking  down.  He  could  only  see  the 
beautifully  dressed  hair,  the  clean-cut  profile.  She  con- 
tinued to  look  into  the  fire,  conscious  of  the  hand  close 
to  her  shoulder. 

"  No,  my  friend,"  she  repeated.  "  We  know  each 
other  too  well  for  that.     It  would  never  do." 

"  But  when  I  tell  you  that  I  love  you,"  he  said  quietly, 
with  his  voice  well  in  control. 

"  I  did  not  know  that  the  word  was  in  your  vocabulary 
— you,  a  diplomat." 

"  And  a  man — you  put  the  w^ord  there — Etta." 

The  hand-screen  was  raised  for  a  moment  in  objec- 
tion— presumably  to  the  Christian  name  of  which  he 
had  made  use. 

He  waited  ;  passivity  was  one  of  his  strong  points. 
It  had  frightened  men  before  this. 

TJien,  with  a  graceful  movement,  she  swung  suddenly 


THE    BARON  43 

round  in  her  chair,  looking  up  at  him.     She  broke  into 
a  merry  laugh. 

"  I  helieve  you  are  actually  in  earnest  !  "  she  cried. 

He  looked  quietly  down  into  her  face  without  moving 
a  muscle  in  response  to  her  change  of  humor. 

"  Very  clever,"  he  said. 

"  What  ?  "  she  asked,  still  smiling. 

*'  The  attitude,  the  voice,  every  thing.  You  have 
known  all  along  that  I  am  in  earnest,  you  have  known 
it  for  the  last  six  months.  You  have  seen  me  often 
enough  when  I  was — well,  not  in  earnest,  to  know  the 
difference." 

Etta  rose  quickly.  It  was  some  lightning-like  woman's 
instinct  tliat  made  her  do  so.  Standing,  she  was  taller 
than  M.  de  Chauxville. 

"  Do  not  let  us  be  tragic,"  she  said  coldly.  "  You 
have  asked  me  to  marry  you  ;  why,  I  don't  know.  The 
reason  will  probably  transpire  later.  I  appreciate  tlie 
honor,  but  I  beg  to  decline  it.  Et  voila  tout.  All  is 
said." 

He  spread  out  apologetic  hands. 

"All  is  not  said,"  he  corrected,  with  a  dangerous 
suavity.  "I  acknowledge  the  claim  enjoyed  by  your 
sex  to  the  last  word.  In  this  matter,  however,  I  am 
inclined  to  deny  it  to  the  individual." 

Etta  Sydney  Bamborough  smiled.  She  leaned  against 
the  mantelpiece,  with  her  chin  resting  on  her  curved  fin- 
gers. The  attitude  was  eminently  calculated  to  show  to 
full  advantage  a  faultless  figure.  She  evidently  had 
no  desire  to  cheapen  that  which  slu'  would  deny.  She 
shrugged  her  shoulders  and  waited. 

De  Chauxville  was  vain,  but  he  was  clever  enough  to 
tjonceal  his  vanity.  He  was  hurt,  but  he  was  man 
enough  to  hide  it.  Under  the  passivity  which  was  his 
by  nature  and  practice,  he  had  learned  to  think  very 
quickly.     But  now  he  was  at  a  disadvantage.     He  was 


44  THE     SOWERS 

unnerved  by  his  love  for  Etta — by  the  sight  of  Etta 
before  him  daringlj^,  audaciously  beautiful — by  the 
thought  that  she   might  never  be    his. 

"  It  is  not  only  that  I  love  you,"  he  said,  "that  I  have 
a  certain  position  to  offer  you.  These  I  beg  you  to  take 
at  their  poor  value.  But  there  are  other  circumstances 
known  to  both  of  us  which  are  more  worth}'^  of  your 
attention— circumstances  which  may  dispose  you  to 
reconsider  your  determination." 

"Nothing  will  do  that,"  she  replied  ;  "not  any  cir- 
cumstance." 

Etta  was  speaking  to  De  Chauxville  and  thinking  of 
Paul  Alexis. 

"  I  should  like  to  know  since  when  you  have  discov- 
ered tliat  you  never  could  under  any  circumstances 
marry  me,"  pursued  M,  de  Chauxville.  "  Not  that  it 
matters,  since  it  is  too  late.  I  am  not  going  to  allow 
you  to  draw  back  now,  You  have  gone  too  far.  All 
this  winter  you  have  allowed  me  to  pay  you  conspicu- 
ous and  marked  attentions.  You  have  conveyed  to  me 
and  to  the  world  at  large  the  impression  that  I  had 
merely  to  speak  in  order  to  obtain  your  hand." 

"  I  doubt,"  said  Etta,  "  whether  the  world  at  large  is 
BO  deeply  interested  in  the  matter  as  you  appear  to 
imagine.  I  am  sorry  that  I  have  gone  too  far,  but  I 
reserve  to  myself  the  right  of  retracing  my  footsteps 
wherever  and  whenever  I  please.  I  am  sorry  I  conveyed 
to  you  or  to  any  one  else  the  impression  that  j^ou  had 
only  to  speak  in  order  to  obtain  my  hand,  and  I  can 
only  conclude  that  your  overweening  vanity  has  led  yon 
into  a  mistake  which  I  will  be  generous  enough  to  hold 
my  tongue  about." 

The  diplomatist  was  for  a  moment  taken  aback. 

"Mais "he    exclaimed,    with     indignant     arms 

outspread  ;  and  even  in  his  own  language  lie  could  find 
nothing  to  add  to  tlie  expressive  monosyllable. 


THE    I5AR0N  45 

"I  think  you  had  better  go,"  said  Etta  qiiietl}^  She 
went  toward  the  fire-place  and  rang  the  bell. 

M.  de  Chauxville  took  up  his  hat  and  gloves. 

"Of  course,"  he  said  coldly,  his  voice  shaking  M^itli 
suppressed  rage,  "  there  is  some  reason  for  this.  There 
is,  I  presume,  some  one  else — some  one  has  been  interfer- 
ing. No  one  interferes  with  me  with  impunity.  I  shall 
make  it  my  business  to  find  out  who  is  this " 

lie  did  not  finish  :  for  the  door  was  thrown  open  by 
the  butler,  who  announced  : 

"Mr.  Alexis." 

Paul  came  into  the  room  with  a  bow  toward  De  Chaux- 
ville, who  was  going  out,  and  whom  he  knew  slightly. 

"  I  came  back,"  he  said,  "  to  ask  what  evening  next 
week  you  are  free.     I  have  a  box  for  the  *  Huguenots.' " 

Paul  did  not  stay.  The  thing  was  arranged  in  a  few 
moments,  and  as  he  left  the  drawing-room  he  heard  the 
wheels  of  De  Chauxville's  carriage. 

Etta  stood  for  a  moment  when  the  door  had  closed 
behind  the  two  men,  looking  at  the  portiere  which  had 
hidden  them  from  sight,  as  if  following  them  in  thought. 
Then  she  gave  a  little  laugh — a  queer  laugh  that  might 
have  had  no  heart  in  it,  or  too  much  for  the  ordinary 
purposes  of  life.  She  shrugged  her  shoulders  and  took 
up  a  magazine,  Avith  which  she  returned  to  the  chair 
placed  for  her  before  the  fire  by  Claude  de  Chauxville. 

In  a  few  minutes  Maggie  came  into  the  room.  She 
was  carrying  a  bundle  of  flannel. 

"  The  weakest  thing  I  ever  did,"  she  said  cheerfully, 
"  was  to  join  Lady  Crewel's  working  guild.  Two  flan- 
nel petticoats  for  the  J^oung  by  Thursday  morning.  I 
chose  the  young  because  the  petticoats  are  so  ludicrously 
small." 

"  If  you  never  do  anything  weaker  than  that,"  said 
Etta,  looking  into  the  fire,  "you  will  not  come  to  much 
harm." 


46  THE     SOWERS 

"  Perhaps  not  ;  wliat  liave  3^011  been  doing — some- 
thing weaker  ?  " 

"  Yes.  I  have  been  quarrelling  with  M.  cle  Cliaux- 
ville." 

Maggie  held  up  a  petticoat  by  the  selvage  (wliich  a 
male  writer  takes  to  be  the  lower  hem),  and  looked  at 
her  cousin  through  the  orifice  intended  for  the  waist  of 
the  young. 

"  If  one  could  manage  it  without  lowering  one's 
dignity,"  she  said,  "  I  think  that  that  is  the  best  thing 
one  could  possibly  do  with  M.  de  Chauxville." 

Etta  had  taken  up  the  magazine  again.  She  was  pre- 
tending to  read  it. 

"  Yes  ;  but  he  knows  too  much — about  every -body," 
she  said. 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE    TALLEYRAND    CLUB 

It  has  been  said  of  the  Talleyrand  Club  that  the  only 
qualifications  required  for  admittance  to  its  membership 
are  a  frock-coat  and  a  glib  tongue.  To  explain  the 
whereabouts  of  the  Talleyrand  Club  were  only  a  work 
of  supererogation.  Many  hansom  cabmen  know  it. 
Hansom  cabmen  know  more  than  they  are  credited  with. 

The  Talleyrand,  as  its  name  implies,  is  a  diplomatic 
club,  but  ambassadors  and  ministers  enter  not  its  por- 
tals. They  send  their  juniors.  Some  of  these  latter  are 
in  the  habit  of  stating  that  London  is  the  hub  of  Europe 
and  the  Talleyrand  smoking-room  its  grease-box.  Cer- 
tain is  it  that  such  men  as  Claude  de  Chauxville,  as 
Karl  Steinmetz,  and  a  hundred  others  who  are  or  have 
been  political  scene-shifters,  are  to  be  found  in  the 
Talleyrand  rooms. 

It  is  a  quiet  club,  with  many  members  and  sparse 
accommodation.  Its  rooms  are  never  crowded,  because 
half  of  its  members  are  afraid  of  meeting  the  other  half. 
It  has  swinging  glass  doors  to  its  every  apartment,  the 
lower  portion  of  the  glass  being  opaque,  while  the 
upper  moiety  affords  a  peep-hole.  Thus,  if  you  are  sit- 
ting in  one  of  the  deep,  comfortable  chairs  to  be  found 
in  all  these  small  rooms,  you  will  be  aware  from  time 
to  time  of  eyes  and  a  bald  head  above  the  ground 
glass.  If  you  are  nobody,  eyes  and  bald  head  will 
prove  to  be  tlie  property  of  a  gentleman  who  does  not 
know  you,  or  knows  you  and  pretends  that  he  does  not. 


48  THE     SOWEKS 

If  you  are  somebody,  your  solitude  will  depend  upon 
your  reputation. 

There  are  quite  a  number  of  bald  beads  in  the  Talley- 
rand Club — bald  beads  surmounting  j^oiithful,  innocent 
faces.  The  innocence  of  these  gentlemen  is  quite 
remarkable.  Like  a  certain  celestial,  they  are  "  child- 
like and  bland";  they  ask  guileless  questions;  they 
make  blameless  mistakes  in  respect  to  facts,  and  require 
correction,  which  they  receive  meekly.  Thej^  know 
absolutely  nothing,  and  their  thirst  for  information  is  as 
insatiable  as  it  is  unobtrusive. 

The  atmosphere  is  vivacious  with  the  light  sound  of 
many  foreign  tongues  ;  it  bristles  with  the  ephemeral 
importance  of  cheap  titles.  One  never  knows  whether 
one's  neighbor  is  an  ornament  to  the  Almanac  de 
Gotha,  or  a  disgrace  to  a  degenerate  colony  of  refugees. 

Some  are  plain  Messieurs,  Seiiores,  or  Herren.  Bluff 
foreigners  with  upright  hair  and  melancholy  eyes,  who 
put  up  philosophically  with  a  cheaper  brand  of  cigar 
than  their  souls  love.  Among  the  latter  maybe  classed 
Karl  Stemmetz — the  bluffest  of  the  bluff — innocent 
even   of  his  own    innocence. 

Karl  Steinmetz  in  due  course  reached  England,  and 
in  natural  sequence  the  smoking-room — room  B  on  the 
left  as  you  go  in — of  the  Tallej^rand. 

He  was  there  one  evening  after  an  excellent  dinner 
taken  with  humorous  resignation,  smoking  the  largest 
cigar  the  waiter  could  supply,  when  Claude  de  Chaux- 
ville  happened  to  have  nothing  better  or  nothing  worse 
to  do. 

De  Chauxville  looked  througli  the  glass  door  for 
some  seconds.  Then  he  twisted  his  waxed  mustache 
and  lounged  in.  Steinmetz  was  alone  in  the  room,  and 
De  Chauxville  was  evidently — almost  obvioush?- — un- 
aware of  his  presence.  He  went  to  the  table  and  pro- 
ceeded to  search  in  vain  for  a  newspaper  that  interested 


THE    TALLEYRAND    CLUB  49 

him.     He  raised    his  eyes  casually  and   met   the  quiet 
gaze  of  Karl  Steinmetz. 

"  Ah  !  "  he  exclaimed. 

"  Yes,"  said  Steinmetz. 

"  You— in  London  ?  " 

Steinmetz  nodded  gravely. 

"  Yes,"  he  repeated. 

*'  One  never  knows  where  one  has  yon,"  Claude  de 
Chauxville  went  on,  seating  himself  in  a  deep  arm-chair, 
newspaper  in  hand.     "  You  are  a  bird  of  passage." 

"A  little  heavy  on  the  wing — now,"  said  Steinmetz. 

He  laid  Ins  newspaper  down  on  his  stout  knees  and 
looked  at  De  Chauxville  over  his  gold  eye-glasses.  He 
did  not  attempt  to  conceal  the  fact  that  he  was  wonder- 
ing what  this  man  wanted  with  him.  The  baron 
seemed  to  be  wondering  what  object  Steinmetz  had  in 
view  in  getting  stout.  He  suspected  some  motive  in 
the  obesity. 

"Ah!"  he  said  deprecatingh^  "That  is  nothing. 
Time  leaves  its  mark  upon  all  of  us.  It  was  not  yester- 
day that  we  were  in  Petersburg  together." 

"No,"  answered  Steinmetz.  "It  was  before  the 
German   Empire — many  years  ago." 

De  Chauxville  counted  back  with  his  slim  fingers  on 
the  table — delightfully  innocent. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "the  years  seem  to  fly  in  coveys. 
Do  you  ever  see  any  of  our  friends  of  that  time — you 
who  are  in  Russia?" 

"  Who  were  our  friends  of  that  time  ? "  parried 
Steinmetz,  polishing  his  glasses  with  a  silk  hand- 
kerchief. "My  memory  is  a  broken  reed — you  re- 
member  ?  " 

For  a  moment  Claude  de  Chauxville  met  the  full, 
quiet,  gray  eyes. 

"  Yes,"  he  said  significantly,  "  I  remember.     Well — 
for  instance,  Prince  Dawoif  ?  " 
4 


60  THE     SOWERS 

"  Dead.     I  never  see  him — tliaiik  Heaven  !  " 

"  Tlie  princess  ?  " 

"  I  never  see  ;  she  keeps  a  gambling  liouse  in  Paris." 

"And  little  Andrea?" 

"  Never  sees  me.  Married  to  a  wholesale  undertaker, 
who  has  buried  her  past." 

"  En  gros  ?  " 

"  Et  en  detail." 

"The  Count  Lanovitch,"  pursued  De  Chauxville, 
"  where  is  he?  " 

"Banished  for  his  connection  with  the  Charity 
League." 

"  Catrina  ?  " 

"Catrina  is  living  in  the  province  of  Tver — we  are 
neighbors — she  and  her  mother,  the  countess." 

De  Chauxville  nodded.  None  of  the  details  really 
interested  him.     His  indifference  was  obvious. 

"  Ah  !  the  Countess  Lanovitch,"  he  said  reflectively, 
"slie  was  a  foolish  woman." 

"  And  is." 

M.  de  Chauxville  laughed.  This  clumsy  German 
ex-diplomat  amused  him  immensely.  Many  people 
amu'se  us  who  are  themselves  amused   in  their  sleeve. 

"  And — er — the  Sydney  Bamboroughs,"  said  the 
Frenchman,  as  if  the  name  had  almost  left  his  memory. 

Karl  Steinmetz  lazily  stretched  out  his  arm  and  took 
up  the  Mor7iing  Post.  He  unfolded  the  sheet  slovvlj^, 
and  having  found  what  he  sought,  he  read  aloud  : 

"  *  His  Excellency  the  Roumanian  Ambassador  gave  a 
select  dinner-party  at  4  Craven  Gardens,  yesterday. 
Among  the  guests  were  the  Baron  de  Chauxville,  Feneer 
Pasha,  Lord  and  Lady  Standover,  Mrs.  S^^dney  Bam- 
borough,  and  others.' " 

Steinmetz  threw  the  paper  down  and  leant  back  in 
his  cli;iir. 

"  So,  my  dear  friend,"  he  said,  "  it   is  probable   that 


THE    TALLEYRAND    CLUIJ  51 

you  know  more  about  tlie  Sydney  Bamboroughs  tli:in  I 
do." 

If  Claude  de  Chauxville  was  disconcerted  he  certainly 
did  not  show  it.  His  was  a  face  eminently  calculated 
to  conceal  whatever  thought  or  feeling  might  be  pass- 
ing through  his  mind.  Of  an  even  white  complexion — 
vei'ging  on  pastiness — he  was  handsome  in  a  certain 
statuesque  way.  His  features  Avere  always  composed 
and  dignified  ;  his  hair,  thin  and  straight,  was  never  out 
of  order,  but  ever  smooth  and  sleek  upon  his  high,  nar- 
row brow.  His  eyes  had  that  dulness  which  is  char- 
acteristic of  many  Frenchmen,  and  may  perhaps  be 
attributed  to  the  habitual  enjoyment  of  too  rich  a  cui- 
sine and  too  many  cigarettes. 

De  Chauxville  waved  aside  the  small  contretemps  with 
easy  nonchalance. 

"  Not  necessarily,"  he  said,  in  cold,  even  tones.  "  Mrs. 
Sydney  Bamborough  does  not  habitually  take  into  her 
confidence  all  who  happen  to  dine  at  the  same  table  as 
herself.     Your  confidential  woman  is  usually  a  liar." 

Steinmetz  was  filling  his  pipe  ;  this  man  had  the  evil 
habit  of  smoking  a  wooden  pipe  after  a  cigar. 

"  My  very  dear  De  Chauxville,"  he  said,  witliout  look- 
up, "  your  epigrams  are  lost  on  me.  I  know  most  of 
them.  I  have  heard  them  before.  If  you  have  any- 
tliing  to  tell  me  about  Mrs.  Sydney  Bamborough,  for 
Heaven's  sake  tell  it  to  me  quite  plainly.  I  like  plain 
dislies  and  unvarnislied  stories.  I  am  a  German,  you 
know  ;  that  is  to  say,  a  person  with  a  dull  palate  and  a 
tliick  head." 

De  Chauxville  laughed  again  in  an  unemotional  ^vny. 

"  You  alter  little,"  he  said.  "  Your  plainness  of 
speech  takes  me  back  to  Petersburg.  Yes,  I  admit  that 
Mrs.  Sydney  Bamborough  rather  interested  me.  But  I 
assume  too  much  ;  that  is  no  reason  why  she  should 
interest  you." 


52  THE     SOWERS 

*'  She  does  not,  my  good  friend,  but  you  do.  I  am  all 
attention." 

"Do  3'ou  know  anything  of  her?"  asked  De  Cliaux= 
ville  perfunctoril}^,  not  as  a  man  who  expects  an  answer 
or  intends  to  believe  that  which  he  may  be  about  to 
hear. 

"  Nothing." 

*'  You  are  likely  to  know  more  ?  " 

Karl  Steinmetz  shrugged  his  heavy  shoulders,  and 
shook  his  head  doubtfully. 

"lam  not  a  lady's  man,"  he  added  gruffly;  "the 
good  God  has  not  sliaped  me  that  way.  I  am  too 
(J — (1  fat.  Has  Mrs.  Sydney  Bamborough  fallen  in 
love  with  me?  Has  some  imprudent  person  sliown  her 
my  photograph  ?     I  hope  not.     Heaven  forbid  !  " 

He  puffed  steadily  at  his  pipe,  and  glanced  quickly  iit 
De  Chauxville  through  the  smoke. 

"No,"  answered  the  Frenchman  quite  gravely. 
Frenchmen,  by  the  way,  do  not  admit  that  one  may  be 
too  middle-aged,  or  too  stout,  for  love.  "  But  she  is 
au  mieux  with  the  prince." 

"Which  prince?" 

"Pavlo." 

The  Frenchman  snapped  out  the  word,  watching  the 
other's  benevolent  countenance.  Steinmetz  continued 
to  smoke  placidly  and  contentedl3\ 

"  My  master,"  he  said  at  length.  "  I  suppose  that 
some  day  he  will  marry." 

De  Chauxville  shrugged  his  shoulders.  He  touched 
the  button  of  the  electric  bell,  and  when  the  servant 
appeared,  ordered  coffee.  He  selected  a  cigarette  from 
a  silver  case  with  considerable  care,  and  having  lighted 
it  smoked  for  some  moments  in  silence.  The  servant 
brought  the  coffee,  which  he  drank  thoughtfull)\ 
Steinmetz  was  leaning  back  in  his  deep  chair,  with  his 
legs  crossed.     He  was  gazing  into  the  tire,  which  burnt 


THE    TALLEYRAND    CLUB  53 

brightly,  altliougli  it  was  nearly  Ma}^  The  habits  of 
the  Talleyrand  Club  are  almost  continental.  The  rooms 
are  always  too  warm.  The  silence  was  that  of  two  men 
knowing  each  otlier  well. 

"  And  wliy  not  Mrs.  Sydney  Bamborough  ?  '*  asked 
Steinmetz  suddenly. 

"  Why  not,  indeed  ?  "  replied  De  Chauxville.  "  It  is 
no  affair  of  mine.  A  wise  man  reduces  his  affairs  to  a 
minimum,  and  his  interest  in  the  affairs  of  his  neighbor 
to  less.     But  I  thought  it  would  interest  you." 

"Thanks." 

The  tone  of  the  big  man  in  the  arm-chair  was  not 
dry.  Karl  Steinmetz  knew  better  than  to  indulge  in 
tliat  pastime.  Dryness  is  apt  to  parch  the  fount  of 
expansiveness. 

De  Chauxville's  attention  was  apparently  caught  by 
an  illustration  in  a  weekly  paper  lying  open  on  the  table 
near  to  him.  Your  shifty  man  likes  something  to  look 
at.  He  did  not  speak  for  some  moments.  Then  he 
threw  the  paper  aside. 

"Wiiowas  Sydney  Bamborough,  at  any  rate?"  he 
asked,  with  a  careless  assumption  of  a  slanginess  which 
is  affected  by  societ}''  in  its  decadent  periods. 

"  So  far  as  I  remember,"  answered  Steinmetz,  "  he 
was  something  in  the  Dij)lomatic  Service," 

"Yes,  but  what?" 

"My  dear  friend,  you  had  better  ask  liis  widow  when 
next  3^ou  sit  beside  her  at  dinner." 

"  How  do  you  know  that  I  sat  beside  her  at  dinner?" 

"I  did  not  know  it,"  replied  Steinmetz,  with  a  quiet 
smile  wldch  left  De  Chauxville  in  doubt  as  to  whether 
he  was  very  stupid  or  exceedingly  clever. 

"Siie  seems  to-be  very  well  off,"  said  the  French- 
man. 

"  I  am  glad,  as  she  is  going  to  many  my  master." 

De  Chauxville  laughed  almost  awkwardly,  and  for  a 


54  THE     SOWERS 

fraction  of  a  second  he  changed  countenance  under 
Steinmetz's  quiet  eyes. 

*'  One  can  never  know  whom  a  woman  intends  to 
many,"  said  he  carelessly,  "  even  if  they  can  themselves, 
which  I  doubt.  But  I  do  not  understand  how  it  is  that 
she  is  so  much  better  off,  or  appears  to  be,  snice  the 
death  of  her  husband." 

"  Ah,  slie  is  much  better  off,  or  appears  to  be,  since 
the  deatli  of  her  husband,"  said  the  stout  man,  in  his 
slow  Germanic  way. 

a  Yes." 

De  Cliauxville  rose,  stretched  himself  and  yawned. 
Men  are  not  always,  be  it  understood,  on  their  best  be- 
havior at  their  club. 

"  Good-night,"  he  said  shortly. 

"  Good-night,  my  very  dear  friend." 

After  the  Frenchman  had  left,  Karl  Steinmetz  re- 
mained quite  motionless  and  expressionless  in  his  chair, 
until  such  time  as  he  concluded  that  De  Chauxville  was 
tired  of  watching  him  through  the  glass  door.  Then 
he  slowly  sat  forward  in  his  chair  and  looked  back  over 
his  shoulder. 

"Our  friend,"  he  muttered,  "  is  afraid  that  Paul  is 
going  to  marry  this  woman.     Now,  I  wonder  why  ?  " 

Tliese  two  had  met  before  in  a  past  whicli  has  little 
or  nothing  to  do  with  the  present  narrative.  They  had 
disliked  each  other  witli  a  completeness  partly  bred  of 
racial  hatred,  partly  the  outcome  of  diverse  interests. 
But  of  late  years  tliey  had  drifted  apart.  There  was 
no  reason  wliy  tlie  friendship,  sucli  as  it  was,  should  not 
have  lapsed  into  a  mere  bowing  acquaintance.  For 
these  men  were  foreigners,  understanding  fully  the  value 
of  the  bow  as  an  interchange  of  masculine  courtesy. 
Englislimen  bow  badly. 

Steinmetz  knew  tliat  tlie  Frenchman  had  recognized 
him  before  enterino-  tlie  room.     It  was  to  be  presumed 


THE    TALLEYRAND    CLUB  55 

that  lie  had  deliberately  chosen  to  cross  the  thrcshohi, 
knowing  that  a  recognition  was  inevitable.  Karl  Steiii- 
metz  went  farther.  He  suspected  that  De  Chaiixville 
had  come  to  the  Talleyrand  Club,  having  heard  that  he 
was  in  England,  with  the  purpose  in  view  of  seeking 
him  out  and  warning  him  against  Mrs.  Sydney  Bam- 
borough. 

"  It  would  appear,"  mui-mured  the  stout  philosopher, 
*'  that  we  are  about  to  work  together  for  the  first  time. 
But  if  there  is  one  thing  that  I  dislike  more  than  the 
enmity  of  Claude  de  Chauxville  it  is  his  friendship." 


CHAPTER  Vn 

OLD     HANDS 

Karl  Steinmetz  lifted  bis  pen  from  the  paper 
before  him  and  scratched  his  forehead  with  his  fore- 
finger. 

"Now,  I  wonder," he  said  aloud,  "how  many  bushels 
there  are  in  a  ton.  Acli  !  how  am  I  to  find  out  ? 
These  English  weights  and  measures,  this  English 
money,  when  there  is  a  metrical  system  !  " 

He  sat  and  hardly  looked  up  when  the  clock  struck 
seven.  It  was  a  quiet  room  this  in  which  he  sat,  the 
library  of  Panl's  London  house.  The  noise  of  Piccadilly 
reached  his  ears  as  a  faint  roar,  not  entirely  unpleasant, 
but  sociable  and  full  of  life.  Accustomed  as  he  was  to 
the  great  silence  of  Russia,  where  sound  seems  lost  in 
space,  the  hum  of  a  crowded  humanity  was  a  pleasant 
change  to  this  philosopher,  who  loved  his  kind  while 
fully  recognizing  its  little  weaknesses. 

While  he  sat  there  still  wondering  how  many  bushels 
of  seed  made  a  ton,  Paul  Alexis  came  into  the  room. 
The  younger  man  was  in  evening  dress.  He  looked  at 
the  clock  rather  eagerly. 

"Will  you  dine  here?"  he  asked,  and  Steinmetz 
w^heeled  around  in  his  chair.  "I  am  going  out  to 
dinner,"  he  explained  further. 

"Ah  !"  said  the  elder  man. 

^^'I  am  going  to  Mrs.  Sydney  Bamborough's." 

Steinmetz  bowed  his  head  gravely.  He  said  nothing. 
He  was  not  looking  at  Paul,  but  at  the  pattern  of  the 
carpet.  There  was  a  short  silence.  Then  Paul  said, 
with  entire  simplicity  : 


OLD    HANDS  57 

"I  shall  probably  ask  her  to  marry  me." 

*' And  she  will  probably  say  yes." 

"I  am  not  so  sure  about  tliat,"  said  Paul,  with  a 
laugh.  For  this  man  was  without  conceit.  lie  had 
gradually  been  forced  to  admit  that  there  are  among 
men  persons  whose  natural  inclination  is  toward  evil, 
persons  who  value  not  the  truth,  nor  hold  by  honesty. 
But  he  was  guileless  enough  to  believe  that  women  are 
not  so.  He  actually  believed  that  women  are  trutliful 
and  open  and  honorable.  He  believes  it  still,  whicli  is 
somewhat  startling.  Tliere  are  a  few  such  dullards  yet. 
"I  do  not  see  wliy  she  should,"  he  went  on  gravely. 
He  was  standing  by  the  empty  fire-place,  a  manly,  up- 
right figure  ;  one  who  was  not  very  clever,  not  brilliant 
at  all,  somewhat  slow  in  his  speech,  but  sure,  deadly 
sure,  in  the  honesty  of  his  purpose. 

Karl  Steinmetz  looked  at  him  and  smiled  openly,  with 
the  quaint  air  of  resignation  that  was  his. 

"You  have  never  seen  her,  eh  ?"  enquired  Paul. 

Steinmetz  paused,  then  he  told  a  lie,  a  good  one,  well 
told,  deliberately. 

"  No." 

"  We  are  going  to  the  opera.  Box  r2.  If  you  come 
in  I  shall  have  pleasure  in  introducing  you.  The  sooner 
you  know  each  other  the  better.  I  am  sure  you  will 
approve." 

"  I  think  you  ought  to  marry  money." 

"Why?" 

Steinmetz  laughed. 

"Oh,"  he  answered,  "because  every-body  does  w^ho 
can.  There  is  Catrina  Lanovitch,  an  estate  as  big  as 
yours,  adjoining  yours.  A  great  Russian  family,  a 
good  girl  who — is  willing." 

Paul  laughed,  a  good  wholesome  laugh. 

"You  are  inclined  to  exaggerate  my  manifold  and 
obvious    qualifications,"    he    said.     "  Catrina   is  a  very 


58  THE     SOWERS 

nice  girl,  but  I  do  not  think  she  would  marry  me  even 
if  I  asked  her." 

"  Which  you  do  not  intend  to  do." 

"  Certainly  not." 

*'Then  you  will  make  an  enemy  of  her,"  said  Stein- 
metz  quietly.  "It  maybe  inconvenient,  but  that  can- 
not be  helped.  A  woman  scorned — you  know. 
Shakspere  or  tlie  Bible,  I  always  mix  them  up.  No, 
Paul  ;  Catrina  Lanovitch  is  a  dangerous  enem3^  She 
has  been  making  love  to  you  these  last  four  years,  and 
you  would  have  seen  it  if  you  had  not  been  a  fool  ! 
I  am  afraid,  my  good  Paul,^ou  are  a  fool,  God  bless 
you  for  it !  " 

"  I  think  you  are  wrong,"  said  Paul  rather  curtly  ; 
"  not  about  me  being  a  fool,  but  about  Catrina  Lano- 
vitch. If  you  are  right,  however,  it  onl}^  makes  me  dis- 
like her  instead  of  being  perfectly  indifferent  to  her." 

His  honest  face  flushed  up  finely,  and  he  turned  away 
to  look  at  the  clock  again. 

"  I  hate  your  way  of  talking  about  women,  Steinmetz," 
he  said.     "  You're  a  cynical  old  beast,  you  know." 

"  Heaven  forbid,  my  dear  prince  !  I  admire  all 
women — tliey  are  so  clever,  so  innocent,  so  pure-minded. 
Do  not  your  English  novels  prove  it,  your  English 
stage,  your  newspapers,  so  high-toned  ?  Who  supports 
the  novelist,  the  play-wright,  the  actor,  who  but  your 
English  ladies  ?  " 

"  Better  than  being  cooks — like  your  German  ladies," 
retorted  Paul  stoutly.  "  If  you  are  German  this  even- 
ing.    Better  than  being  cooks." 

"  I  doubt  it  !  I  very  much  doubt  it,  my  friend. 
At  what  time  sliall  I  present  myself  at  Box  F2  this 
evening  ?  " 

"  About  nine — as  soon  as  you  like." 

Paul  looked  at  the  clock.  The  pointers  lagged  horri- 
bly.    He  knew  that  the  carriage  was  certain  to  be  at  the 


OLD    HANDS  59 

door,  waiting  in  the  quiet  street  witli  its  great  restless 
horses,  its  two  perfectly  trained  men,  its  gleaming  lamps 
and  shining  harness.  But  he  would  not  allow  himself 
the  luxurj^  of  being  the  first  arrival.  Paul  had  himself 
well  in  hand.     At  last  it  was  time  to  go. 

"  See  you  later,"  he  said. 

"  Thank  you — yes,"  replied  Steinmetz,  without  look- 
ing up. 

So  Paul  Howard  Alexis  sallied  forth  to  seek  the  hand 
of  the  lady  of  his  choice,  and  as  he  left  his  own  door 
that  lady  was  receiving  Claude  de  Ciiauxville  in  her 
drawing-room.  The  two  had  not  met  for  some  wrecks — 
not  indeed  since  Etta  had  told  the  Frenchman  that  she 
could  not  marry  him.  Her  invitation  to  dine,  couched 
in  the  usual  friendly  words,  had  been  the  first  move  in 
that  game  commonly  called"  bluff."  Claude  de  Chaux- 
ville's  acceptance  of  the  same  had  been  the  second  move. 
And  these  two  persons,  who  were  not  afraid  of  each 
other,  shook  hands  with  a  pleasant  smile  of  greeting, 
while  Paul  hurried  toward  them  through  the  busy 
streets. 

"  Am  I  forgiven — that  I  am  invited  to  dinner  ?  " 
asked  De  Chauxville  imperturbably,  when  the  servant 
had  left  them  alone. 

Etta  was  one  of  those  women  who  are  conscious  of 
their  dress.  Some  may  protest  that  a  lady  moving  in 
such  circles  would  not  be  so.  But  in  all  circles  women 
are  only  women,  and  in  every  class  of  life  we  meet  such 
as  Etta  Bamborough.  Women  who,  while  they  talk, 
glance  down  and  rearrange  a  flower  or  a  piece  of  lace. 
It  is  a  mere  habit,  seemingly  small  and  unimportant ; 
but  it  marks  the  woman  and  sets  her  apart. 

Etta  was  standing  on  the  hearthrug,  beautifully 
dressed — too  beautifully  dressed,  it  is  possible,  to  sit 
down.  Her  maid  had  a  moment  earlier  confessed  that 
she  could  do  no  more,  and  Etta  had  come  down  stairs  a 


60  THE     SOWEES 

vision  of  luxury,  of  womanly  loveliness.  Nevertheless, 
there  appeared  to  be  something  amiss.  She  was  so 
occupied  with  a  flower  at  her  shoulder  that  she  did  not 
answer  at  once. 

"Forgiven  for  what?"  she  asked  at  length,  in  that 
preoccupied  tone  of  voice  which  tells  wise  men  that 
onl}^  questions  of  dress  will  be  considered. 

De  Chauxville  shrugged  his  shoulders  in  his  graceful 
Gallic  wa^^ 

"  Mon  Dieu  !  "  he  exclaimed.  "  For  a  crime  which 
requires  no  excuse,  and  no  explanation  other  tljan  a 
mirror." 

She  looked  up  at  him  innocently. 

"A  mirror?" 

"Yours.  Have  you  forgiven  me  for  falling  in  love 
with  you  ?  It  is,  I  am  told,  a  crime  that  women  some- 
times condone." 

"  It  was  no  crime,"  she  said.  She  had  heard  the 
wheels  of  Paul's  carriage.  "  It  was  a  misfortune. 
Please   let   us   forget   that   it   ever   happened." 

De  Chauxville  twirled  his  neat  mustache,  looking 
keenly  at  her  the  while. 

"  You  forget,"  he  said.     "  But  I— will  remember." 

She  did  not  answer,  but  turned  with  a  smile  to  greet 
Paul.   ' 

"  I  think  you  know  each  other,"  she  said  gracefully 
when  she  had  shaken  hands,  and  the  two  men  bowed. 
Tliey  were  foreigners,  be  it  understood.  There  were 
three  languages  in  which  they  could  understand  each 
other  with  equal  ease. 

"  Where  is  Maggie  ?  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Bamborough. 
"  She  is  always  late." 

"  When  I  am  here,"  reflected  De  Chauxville.  But  he 
did  not  say  it. 

Miss  Delafield  kept  them  waiting  a  few  minutes,  and 
during  that  time  Etta  Sydney  Bamborough  gave  a  very 


OLD    HANDS  61 

fine  display  of  prowess  with  the  double-stringed  bow. 
AVlien  a  man  attempts  to  liandle  this  delicate  weapon, 
he  usually  makes,  if  one  may  put  it  tlius  crudely,  an  ass 
of  liimself.  lie  generally  succeeds  in  snapjiing  one  and 
probably  both  of  the  strings,  injuring  himself  most  cer> 
tainly  in  the  process. 

Not  so,  however,  this  clever  lady.  She  had  a  smile 
and  an  epigram  for  Claude  de  Chauxville,  a  grave  air  of 
sympathetic  interest  in  more  serious  affairs  for  I^aul 
Alexis.  She  was  bright  and  amusing,  guileless  and  very 
worldly  wise  in  the  same  breath — simple  for  Paul  and 
a  match  for  De  Chauxville,  within  the  space  of  three 
seconds.  Withal  she  was  a  beautiful  woman  beautifully 
dressed.  A  thousand  times  too  wise  to  scorn  her 
womanhood,  as  learned  fools  are  prone  to  do  in  print 
and  on  platform  in  these  wordy  days,  but  wielding  the 
strongest  power  on  earth,  to  wit,  that  same  womanhood, 
with  daring  and  with  skill.  A  learned  woman  is  not  of 
much  account  in  the  world.  A  clever  woman  moves  as 
much  of  it  as  lies  in  her  neighborhood — that  is  to  say, 
as  much  as  she  cares  to  rule.  For  women  love  power, 
but  they  do  not  care  to  wield  it  at  a  distance. 

Paul  was  asked  to  take  Mrs.  Sydney  Bamborough 
down  to  dinner  by  the  lady  herself. 

"  Mon  ami,"  she  said  in  a  quiet  aside  to  De  Chauxville, 
before  making  her  request,  "  it  is  the  first  time  the 
prince  dines  here." 

She  spoke  in  French.  Maggie  and  Paul  Avere  talking 
together  at  the  other  end  of  the  room.  De  Chauxville 
bowed  in  silence. 

At  dinner  the  conversation  was  necessarily  general, 
and,  as  such,  is  not  worth  reporting.  No  general  con- 
versation, one  finds,  is  of  much  value  when  set  down  in 
black  and  white.  It  is  not  even  grammatical  nowadays. 
To  be  more  correct,  let  us  note  that  the  talk  lay  be- 
tween Etta  and  M.  de  Chauxville,  who  had  a  famous 


62  THE     SOWEKS 

supply  of  epigrams  and  bright  notliiiigs  delivered  in 
such  a  way  that  they  really  sounded  like  wisdom.  Etta 
was  equal  to  him,  sometimes  capping  his  sharp  wit, 
sometimes  contenting  herself  with  silvery  laughter. 
Maggie  Delafield  was  rather  distraite,  as  De  Chauxville 
noted.  Tlie  girl's  dislike  for  him  was  an  iron  that 
entered  the  quick  of  his  vanity  anew  every  time  he  saw 
her.  There  was  no  petulance  in  the  aversion,  such  as 
he  had  perceived  with  other  maidens  who  were  only 
resenting  a  passing  negligence  or  seeking  to  pique  his 
curiosity.  This  was  a  steady  and,  if  you  will,  unmaid- 
enly  aversion,  which  Maggie  conscientiously  attempted 
to  conceal. 

Paul,  it  is  to  be  feared,  was  what  hostesses  call  heavy 
in  hand.  He  laughed  where  he  saw  soraething.to  laugh 
at,  but  not  elsewhere,  which  in  some  circles  is  considered 
morose  and  in  bad  form.  He  joined  readil}'  enough  in 
tlie  conversation,  but  originated  nothing.  Those  topics 
wliich  occupied  his  mind  did  not  present  themselves 
as  suitable  to  this  occasion.  His  devotion  to  Etta  was 
quite  obvious,  and  he  was  simple  enough  not  to  care 
that  it  should  be  so. 

Maggie  was  by  turns  quite  silent  and  ver}^  talkative. 
AVhen  Paul  and  Etta  were  speaking  together  she  never 
looked  at  them,  but  fixedly  at  her  own  plate,  at  a 
decanter,  or  a  salt-cellar.  When  she  spoke  she  ad- 
dressed her  remarks — valueless  enough  in  themselves — 
exclusively  to  the  man  she  disliked,  Claude  de  Chaux- 
ville. 

There  was  something  amiss  in  the  pretty  little  room. 
There  were  shadows  seated  around  that  pretty  little 
table  a  quatre,  beside  the  guests  in  their  pretty  dresses 
and  their  black  coats  ;  silent  cold  shadows,  who  ate 
nothing,  while  they  chilled  the  dainty  food  and  took 
the  sweetness  from  the  succulent  dishes.  Tliese  shad- 
ows had  crept  in  unawares,  a  .silent  parlie  carree,  to  take 


OLD    HANDS  63 

their  phantom  places  at  the  tabk',  and  only  Ella  fse'cnied 
able  to  jostle  hers  aside  and  talk  it  down.  Slie  took  llie 
Aviiole  ourden  of  the  conversation  upon  her  pielty 
shoulders,  and  bore  it  through  the  little  banquet  witli 
unerring  skill  and  unflinching  good  humor.  In  the 
midst  of  her  merriest  laughter,  the  clever  graj'-  eyes 
would  flit  from  one  man's  face  to  the  other.  Paul  had 
been  Iwought  here  to  ask  her  to  marry  him.  Claude  de 
Chauxville  had  been  invited  tliat  he  might  be  tacitly 
presented  to  his  successful  rival.  INIaggie  was  there 
because  she  was  a  woman  and  made  the  necessary 
fourth.  Puppets  all,  and  two  of  them  knew  it.  And 
some  of  us  know  it  all  our  lives.  We  are  living,  mov- 
ing puppets.  We  let  ourselves  be  dragged  here  and 
pushed  there,  the  victim  of  one  who  happens  to  have 
more  energy  of  mind,  a  greater  steadfastness  of  pur- 
pose, a  keener  grasp  of  the  situation  called  life.  We 
smirk  and  smile,  and  lose  the  game  because  we  have 
begun  by  being  anvils,  and  are  afraid  of  trying  to  be 
hammers. 

But  Etta  Sydney  Bamborough  had  to  deal  with 
metal  of  a  harder  grain  than  the  majority  of  us. 
Claude  de  Chauxville  was  for  the  moment  forced  to 
assume  the  humble  role  of  anvil  because  he  had  no 
choice.  Maggie  Delatield  was  passive  for  the  time 
being,  because  that  which  would  make  her  active  was 
no  more  than  a  tiny  seedling  in  her  heart.  The  girl 
bid  fair  to  be  one  of  those  women  who  develop  late, 
who  ripen  slowly,  like  the  best  fruit. 

During  the  drive  to  the  opera  house  the  two  women 
in  Etta's  snug  little  brougham  were  silent.  Etta  had 
her  thoughts  to  occupy  her.  She  was  at  the  crucial 
point  of  a  difticult  game.  She  could  not  afford  to  allow 
even  a  friend  to  see  so  much  as  the  corners  of  the  cards 
she  held. 

Ill  the  luxurious  box  it  was  easily  enough  arranged — 


64  THE     SOWERS 

Etta  and  Paul  together  in  front,  De  Cliauxville  and 
Mnggie  at  the  otlier  corner  of  the  box. 

"  I  have  asked  my  friend  Karl  Steinmetz  to  come  in 
during  the  evening,"  said  Paul  to  Etta  when  the}^  were 
seated.  "  He  is  anxious  to  make  your  acquaintance. 
He  is  my — prime  minister  over  in  Russia." 

Etta  smiled  graciously. 

"  It  is  kind  of  him,"  she  answered,  "  to  be  anxious  to 
make  m}^  acquaintance." 

She  was  apparently  listening  to  the  music  ;  in  reality 
she  was  hurrying  back  mentall}^  over  half  a  dozen 
years.  She  had  never  had  much  to  do  with  the 
stout  German  philosopher,  bat  she  knew  enough  of 
him  to  scorn  the  faint  hope  that  he  might  have 
forgotten  her  name  and  her  individuality.  Etta  Bam- 
borough  had  never  been  disconcerted  in  her  life  3'et  ; 
this  incident  came  very  near  to  bringing  about  the 
catastrophe. 

"  At  what  time,"  she  asked,  "  is  he  coming  in  ?  " 

"About  half-past  nine." 

Etta  had  a  watch  on  a  bracelet  on  her  arm.  Such 
women  always  know  the  time. 

It  was  a  race,  and  Etta  won  it.  She  had  only 
half  an  hour.  De  Chauxville  was  there,  and  Maggie 
with  her  quiet,  honest  eyes.  But  the  widow  of  S3^dne3'- 
Bamborough  made  Paul  ask  her  to  be  his  wife,  a!id  she 
promised  to  give  him  his  answer  later.  She  did  it 
despite  a  thousand  difficulties  and  more  than  one  dan- 
ger— accomplished  it  with,  as  tlie  sporting  people  say, 
plenty  to  spare — before  the  door  behind  them  was 
opened  by  the  attendant,  and  Karl  Steinmetz,  burly, 
humorously  imperturbable  and  impenetrable,  stood  smil- 
ing gravely  on  the  situation. 

He  saw  Claude  de  Chauxville,  and  before  the 
Frenchman  had  turned  round  the  expression  on  Stein- 
metz's  large  and  placid  countenance  had  clianged  from 


OLD    HANDS  65 

the  self-consciousness  usually  preceding  an  introduction 
to  one  of  a  dim  recognition. 

"  I  have  had  the  pleasure  of  meeting  madame  some- 
where before,  I  think.     In  St.  Petersburg,  was  it  not?" 

Etta,  composed  and  smiling,  said  that  it  was  so,  and 
introduced  him  to  Maggie.  De  Cliauxville  took  tlie 
opportunity  of  leaving  that  young  lady's  side,  and  plac- 
ing himself  near  enough  to  Paul  and  Etta  to  com- 
pletely frustrate  any  further  attempts  at  confidential 
conversation. 

For  a  moment  Steinmetz  and  Paul  were  left  standing 
together 

"I  have  liad  a  telegram,"  said  Steinmetz  in  Russian. 
"  We  must  go  back  to  Tver.  There  is  cholera  again. 
"When  can  you  come  ?  " 

Beneath  his  heavy  mustache  Paul  bit  his  lip. 

*'In  three  days,"  he  answered. 

"True?  You  will  come  with  me?"  enquired  Stein- 
metz, under  cover  of  the  clashing  music. 

"Of  course." 

Steinmetz  looked  at  him  curiously.  He  glanced 
toward  Etta,  but  he  said  nothing. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

SAFE  ! 

The  season  wore  on  to  its  perilielion — a  period,  the 
scientific  books  advise  us,  of  the  highest  clang  and 
crash  of  speed  and  whirl,  of  the  greatest  brilliancy  and 
deepest  glow  of  a  planet's  existence.  The  business  of 
life,  the  pursuit  of  pleasure,  and  the  scientific  demoli- 
tion of  our  common  enemy,  Time,  received  all  the  care 
which  such  matters  require. 

Debutantes  bloomed  and  were  duly  culled  by  aged 
connoisseurs  of  such  wares,  or  by  youthful  aspirants 
with  the  means  to  pay  the  piper  in  the  form  of  a  hand- 
some settlement.  The  usual  number  of  young  persons 
of  the  gentler  sex  entered  the  lists  of  life,  with  the  mis- 
taken notion  that  it  is  love  that  makes  the  world  go 
round,  to  ride  away  from  the  joust  wiser  and  sadder 
women. 

There  was  the  same  round  of  conventional  pleasures 
which  the  reader  and  his  humble  servant  have  mixed  in 
deeply  or  dilettante,  according  to  his  taste  or  capacity 
for  such  giddy  work.  There  was  withal  the  usual  heart- 
burning, heart-bartering,  heart — any  tiling  you  will  but 
breaking.  For  we  have  not  breaking  hearts  among  us 
to-day.  Providence,  it  would  seem,  has  run  sliort  of  the 
commodity,  and  deals  out  only  a  few  among  a  number 
of  ])ersons. 

Amid  the  whirl  of  rout,  and  ball,  and  picnic,  race- 
meeting,  polo-match,  and  what-not,  l*aul  Howard  Alexis 
stalked  misunderstood,  distrusted  ;  an  object  of  ridicule 
to  some,  of  pity  to  others,  of  impatience  to  all.     A  man. 


SAFE  !  CV 

if  it  please  you,  with  a  purpose — a  purpose  at  tlie  latter 
end  of  the  nineteenth  century,  wlien  most  of  us,  liavmg 
decided  that  there  is  no  future,  take  it  upon  ourselves  to 
despise  the  present. 

Paul  soon  discovered  that  he  was  found  out — at  no 
time  a  pleasant  condition  of  tilings,  except,  indeed,  when 
callers  are  about.  That  which  Eton  and  Cambridge 
had  failed  to  lay  their  fingers  upon,  every  match-making 
mother  Iiad  found  out  for  herself  in  a  week.  That  tlie 
discovery  had  been  carefully  kept  in  each  maternal 
breast,  it  is  needless  to  relate.  Ces  dames  are  not  con- 
fidential upon  such  matters  between  themselves.  Wlien 
they  have  scented  tlieir  game  they  stalk  him,  and  if 
possible  bag  him  in  a  feline  solitude  which  has  no  fears 
for  stout,  ambitious  hearts.  The  fear  is  that  some  other 
prowling  mother  of  an  eligible  maiden  may  hit  upon  the 
same  scent. 

Paul  was  invited  to  quiet  dinners  and  a  little  music, 
to  quiet  dinners  without  the  music,  to  a  very  little  music 
and  no  dinner  whatever.  The  number  of  ladies  who  had 
a  seat  in  a  box  thrown  upon  their  hands  at  the  last 
minute — a  seat  next  to  Angelina  in  her  new  pink,  or 
Blanche  in  her  sweet  poult  de  soie — the  number  of  these 
ladies  one  can  only  say  was  singular,  because  politeness 
forbids  one  to  suggest  that  it  was  suspicious.  Soft 
cheeks  became  rosy  at  his  approach — partlj^,  perhaps, 
because  soft  and  dainty  toes  in  satin  slippers  were  trod- 
den upon  with  maternal  emphasis  at  that  moment.  Soft 
eyes  looked  love  into  eyes  that,  alas  !  only  returned  pre- 
occupation. There  was  always  room  on  an  engagement 
card  for  Paul's  name.  There  was  always  space  in  the 
smallest  drawing-room  for  Paul's  person,  vast  tliough 
the  latter  was.  There  was — fond  mothers  conveyed  it 
to  him  subtly  after  supper  and  champagne — an  aching 
void  in  more  than  one  maiden  heart  which  Avas  his 
exact  fit. 


68  THE     SOWERS 

But  Paul  was  at  once  too  simple  and  too  clever  for 
niatroJi  and  maid  alike.  Too  simple,  because  he  failed 
to  understand  the  inner  meaning  of  man}^  pleasant  things 
that  the  guileless  fair  one  said  to  him.  Too  clever, 
because  he  met  the  subtle  matron  with  the  only  arm  she 
feared,  a  perfect  honesty.  And  when  at  last  he  obtained 
his  answer  from  the  coy  and  hesitating  Etta,  there  was 
no  gossip  in  London  who  could  put  forward  a  just  cause 
or  impediment. 

Etta  gave  him  the  answer  one  evening  at  the  house  of 
a  mutual  friend,  where  a  multitude  of  guests  had  assem- 
bled ostensibly  to  hear  certain  celebrated  singers,  a})par- 
ently  to  wdiisper  recriminations  on  their  entertainer's 
champagne.  It  was  a  dull  business — except,  indeed,  for 
Paul  Howard  Alexis.  As  for  the  lady — the  only  lady 
his  honest,  simple  world  contained — who  shall  say?  In- 
wardly she  may  have  been  in  trembling,  coy  alarm, 
in  breathless,  blushing  hesitation.  Outwardly  she  was, 
however,  exceedingly  composed  and  self-possessed.  She 
had  been  as  careful  as  ever  of  her  toilet — as  hard  to 
please  ;  as — dare  we  say  snappish  Avith  her  maids  ? 
The  beautiful  hair  had  no  one  of  its  aureate  threads  out 
of  place.  The  pink  of  her  shell-like  cheek  was  steady, 
unruffled,  fair  to  behold.  Her  whole  demeanor  was 
admirable  in  its  well-bred  repose.  Did  she  love  him  ? 
Was  it  in  her  power  to  love  any  man  ?  Not  tlie  liumble 
chronicler — not  any  man,  perhaps,,  and  but  few  women — 
can  essay  an  answer.  Suffice  it  that  she  accepted  him. 
In  exchange  for  the  title  he  could  give  her,  the  position 
lie  could  assure  to  her,  the  wealth  he  was  ready  to  lavish 
upon  her,  and,  lastly,  let  us  mention,  in  the  effete,  old- 
fashioned  way,  the  love  he  bore  her — in  exchange  for 
these  she  gave  him  her  hand. 

Thus  Etta  S^^dney  Bamborough  was  enabled  to  throw 
down  her  cards  at  last  and  win  the  game  she  had  played 
so  skilfully.     The  widow  of  an  obscure  little  Foreign 


'YES,    I   nAVF,    MY    AXSWEH    UEADV 


SAFE  !  69 

Office  clerk,  she  might  liave  been  a  baroness,  but  slie 
put  the  smaller  honor  aside  and  aspired  to  a  prince. 
Behind  the  gay  smile  there  must  have  been  a  quick  and 
resourceful  brain,  daring  to  scheme,  intrepid  in  execu- 
tion. Within  the  fair  breast  there  must  liave  been  a 
heart  resolute,  indomitable,  devoid  of  weak  scruple. 
Mark  the  last.  It  is  the  scruple  that  keeps  the  reader 
and  his  humble  servant  from  being  greater  men  than 
they  are. 

"  Yes,"  says  Etta,  allowing  Paul  to  take  her  perfectly 
gloved  hand  in  his  great,  steady  grasp  ;  "  yes,  I  have 
my  answer  ready." 

They  were  alone  in  the  plashy  solitude  of  an  inner 
conservator}^,  between  the  songs  of  the  great  singers. 
She  was  half  afraid  of  this  strong  man,  for  he  had  strange 
ways  with  him— not  uncouth,  but  unusual  and  somewhat 
surprising  in  a  finnicking,  emotionless  generation. 

"  And  what  is  it  ? "  whispers  Paul  eagerly.  Ah  ! 
what  fools  men  are— what  fools  they  always  will  be  ! 

Etta  gave  a  little  nod,  looking  shamefacedly  down  at 
the  pattern  of  her  lace  fan. 

"  Is  that  it  ?  "  he  asked  breathlessly^ 

The  nod  Avas  repeated,  and  Paul  Howard  Alexis  was 
thereby  made  the  happiest  man  in  England.  She  half 
expected  him  to  take  her  in  his  arms,  despite  the  tem- 
porary nature  of  their  solitude.  Perhaps  she  half 
wished  it  ;  for  behind  her  business-like  and  exceedingly 
practical  appreciation  of  his  wealth  there  lurked  a  very 
feminine  curiosity  and  interest  in  his  feelings— a  curiosity 
somewhat  whetted  by  the  manifold  differences  that 
existed  between  him  and  the  society  lovers  with  whom 
she  had  hitherto  played  the  pretty  game. 

But  Paul  contented  himself  with  raising  the  gloved 
fingers  to  his  lips,  restrained  by  a  feeling  of  respect  for 
her  whicli  she  would  not  have  understood  and  probably 
did  not  merit. 


70  THE     SOWEKS 

"  But,"  she  said  with  a  sudden  smile,  "  I  take  no 
responsibility.  I  am  not  very  sure  that  it  will  be  a 
success,  I  can  only  try  to  make  you  happy — goodness 
knows  if  I  shall  succeed  !  " 

"  You  have  only  to  be  yourself  to  do  that,"  he 
answered,  with  lover-like  promptness  and  a  blindness 
which    is  the    special   privilege  of   those    happy   fools. 

She  gave  a  strange  little  smile. 

"But  how^  do  I  knoAV  that  our  lives  will  harmonize  in 
the  least?  I  know  nothing  of  your  daily  existence; 
where  you  live — where  you  want  to  live." 

"  I  should  like  to  live  mostly  in  Russia,"  he  answered 
honestly. 

Her  expression  did  not  change.  It  merel}^  fixed  itself 
as  one  sees  the  face  of  a  watching  cat  fix  itself,  when 
the  longed  for  mouse  shows  a  whisker. 

"  Ah  ! "  she  said  lightly,  confident  in  her  own  power  ; 
"  that  will  arrange  itself  later." 

"  I  am  glad  I  am  rich,"  said  Paul  simply,  "  because 
I  shall  be  able  to  give  you  all  you  want.  There  are 
many  little  things  that  add  to  a  woman's  comfort ;  I 
shall  find  them  out  and  see  that  you  have  them." 

"Are  you  so  very  rich,  Paul?"  she  asked,  with  an 
innocent  wonder.  "  But  I  don't  think  it  matters  ;  do 
you  ?  I  do  not  think  that  riches  have  much  to  do  with 
happiness." 

"  No,"  he  answered.  He  was  not  a  person  with 
many  theories  upon  life  or  happiness  or  such  matters 
— which,  by  the  way,  are  in  no  way  affected  by  theories. 
By  taking  thought  we  cannot  add  a  cubit  to  the  height 
of  our  happiness.  We  can  only  undermine  its  base  by 
too  searching  an  analysis  of  that  upon  which  it  is  built. 

So  Paul  replied  "No,"  and  took  pleasure  in  looking  at 
her,  as  any  lover  must  needs  have  done. 

"Except,  of  course,"  she  said,  "that  one  may  do 
good  with  great  riches." 


SAFE  !  71 

She  gave  a  little  sigh,  as  if  deploring  the  misfortune 
til  at  liitherto  her  own  small  means  had  fallen  short  of 
the  happy  point  at  which  one  may  begin  doing  good. 

"Are  you  so  very  rich,  Paul?"  she  repeated,  as  if 
she  was  rather  afraid  of  those  riches  and  mistrusted 
them. 

"  Oh,  I  suppose  so.     Horribly  rich  !  " 

She  had  withdrawn  her  hand.  She  gave  it  to  him 
again,  with  a  pretty  movement  usually  understood  to 
indicate  bashfulness. 

"It  can't  be  helped,"  she  said.  "We"— she  dwelt 
upon  the  word  ever  so  slightly — "  we  can  perhaps  do  a 
little  good  with  it." 

Then  suddenly  he  blurted  out  all  his  wishes  on  this 
point — his  quixotic  aims,  the  foolish  imaginings  of  a 
too  chivalrous  soul.  She  listened,  prettily  eager, 
sweetl}^  compassionate  of  the  sorrows  of  the  peasantry 
whom  he  made  the  object  of  his  simple  pit3^  Her 
gray  eyes  contracted  with  horror  when  he  told  her  of 
the  misery  with  v/hich  he  was  too  familiar.  Her  pretty 
lil)S  quivered  when  he  told  her  of  little  children  born 
only  to  starve  because  their  mothers  were  starving. 
She  laid  her  gloved  fingers  gently  on  his  when  he 
recounted  tales  of  strong  men — good  fathers  in  their 
simple,  barbarous  way — who  were  well  content  that  the 
children  should  die  rather  than  be  saved  to  pass  a  miser- 
able existence,  without  joy,  without  hope. 

She  lifted  her  eyes  with  admiration  to  iiis  face  when 
he  told  her  what  he  hoped  to  do,  what  he  dreamed  of 
accomplishing.  She  even  made  a  few  eager,  heartfelt 
suggestions,  fitly  coming  from  a  woman — touched  with 
a  woman^s  tenderness,  lightened  by  a  woman's  sj^m- 
pathy  and  knowledge. 

It  was  in  its  way  a  tragedy,  the  picture  we  are  called 
to  look  upon — these  newly  made  lovers,  not  talking  of 
themselves,  as  is  the  time-honored  habit  of  such.     Sur- 


72  THE     so  AVERS 

rounded  by  every  luxuiy,  both  liigli-born,  refined,  and 
wealthy  ;  both  educated,  both  intelligent.  He,  simple- 
minded,  earnest,  quite  absorbed  in  his  happiness,  because 
tliat  happiness  seemed  to  fall  in  so  easily  with  the 
busier,  and,  as  some  might  say,  the  nobler  side  of  liis 
ambition.  She,  failing  to  understand  his  aspirations, 
thinking  only  of  his  wealth. 

"  But,"  she  said  at  length,  "  shall  you — we — be  al- 
lowed to  do  all  this?  I  thought  that  such  schemes  were 
not  encouraged  in  Russia.  It  is  such  a  i^ity  to  pauperize 
the  people." 

"  You  cannot  pauperize  a  man  who  has  absolutely 
notliing,"  replied  Paul.  "  Of  course,  we  shall  liave 
difficulties  ;  but,  together,  I  tliink  we  shall  be  able  to 
overcome  them." 

Etta  smiled  sympathetically,  and  the  smile  finished 
up,  as  it  were,  with  a  gleam  very  like  amusement.  She 
had  been  vouchsafed  for  a  moment  a  vision  of  herself  in 
some  squalid  Russian  village,  in  a  hideous  Russian-made 
tweed  dress,  dispensing  the  necessaries  of  life  to  a 
people  only  little  raised  above  the  beasts  of  the  field. 
Tiie  vision  made  her  smile,  as  well  it  might.  In  Peters- 
burg life  might  be  tolerable  for  a  little  in  the  height  of 
the  season — for  a  few  weeks  of  the  brilliant  Northern 
winter — but  in  no  other  part  of  Russia  could  she  dream 
of  dwelling. 

They  sat  and  talked  of  their  future  as  lovers  will, 
knowing  as  little  of  it  as  any  of  us,  building  up  castles 
in  the  air,  such  edifices  as  we  have  all  constructed, 
destined,  no  doubt,  to  the  same  rapid  collapse  as  some 
of  us  have  quailed  under.  Paul,  with  lamentable  hon- 
esty, talked  almost  as  much  of  his  stupid  peasants  as  of 
his  beautiful  companion,  which  pleased  her  not  too  well. 
Etta,  with  a  strange  persistence,  brought  the  conversa- 
tion ever  back  and  back  to  the  house  in  London,  the 
house  in  Petersburg,  the  great  grim  castle  in  the  Gov- 


SAFE  !  V3 

ernment  of  Tver,  and  tlie  princely  rent-roll.  And  once 
on  the  subject  of  Tver,  Paul  could  scarce  be  brought  to 
leave  it. 

"  I  am  going  back  there,"  he  said  at  length. 

"When?"  she  asked,  with  a  composure  which  did 
infinite  credit  to  her  modest  reserve.  Her  love  was 
jealously  guarded.  It  lay  too  deep  to  be  disturbed  by 
the  thought  that  her  lover  would  leave  her  soon. 

"  To-morrow,"  was  his  answer. 

She  did  not  speak  at  once.  Should  she  try  the  extent 
of  her  power  over  him?  Never  was  lover  so  chival- 
rous, so  respectful,  so  sincere.  Should  she  gauge  the 
height  of  her  supremacy  ?  If  it  proved  less  powerful 
than  she  suspected,  she  would  at  all  events  be  credited 
witli  a  very  natural  aversion  to  parting  from  him. 

"  Paul,"  she  said,  "  you  cannot  do  that.  Not  so  soon. 
I  cannot  let  you  go." 

He  flushed  up  to  the  eyes  suddenly,  like  a  girl.  There 
was  a  little  pause,  and  the  color  slowly  left  his  face. 
Somehow  that  pause  frightened  Etta. 

"  I  am  afraid  I  must  go,"  he  said  gravely  at  length. 

"  Must — a  pritice  ?" 

"  It  is  on  that  account,"  he  replied. 

"  Then  I  am  to  conclude  that  you  are  more  devoted 
to  your  peasants  than  to — me?" 

He  assured  her  to  the  contrary.  She  tried  once  again, 
but  nothing  could  move  him  from  his  decision.  Etta 
was  perhaps  a  small-minded  person,  and  as  such  failed 
to  attach  due  importance  to  this  proof  that  her  power 
over  him  was  limited.  It  ceased,  in  fact,  to  exist  as 
soon  as  it  touched  that  strong  sense  of  duty  which  is  to 
be  found  in  many  men  and  in  remarkably  few  women. 

It  almost  seemed  as  if  the  abrupt  departure  of  her 
lover  was  in  some  sense  a  relief  to  Etta  Sydney  Bam- 
borough.  For,  while  he,  lover-like,  was  grave  and 
earnest  during  the  small  remainder  of  the  evening,  she 


74  THE     SOWERS 

ooiitiiiiied  to  be  sprightly  and  gay.  The  last  he  saw  of 
her  was  her  smiling  face  at  the  window  as  her  carriage 
drove  away. 

Arrived  at  the  little  house  in  Upper  Brook  Street, 
Maggie  and  Etta  went  into  the  drawing-room,  where 
biscuits  and  wine  were  set  out.  Their  maids  came  and 
took  their  cloaks  away,  leaving  them  alone. 

"  Paul  and  I  are  engaged,"  said  Etta  suddenly.  She 
was  picking  the  withered  flowers  from  her  dress  and 
throwing  them  carelessly  on  the  table. 

Maggie  was  standing  with  her  back  to  her,  w^itli  her 
two  hands  on  the  mantel-piece.  She  was  about  to  turn 
round  when  she  caught  sight  of  her  own  face  in  the 
mirror,  and  that  which  she  saw  there  made  her  change 
her  intention. 

"  I  am  not  surprised,"  she  said,  in  an  even  voice, 
standing  like  a  statue.  "  I  congratulate  you.  I  think 
he  is — nice." 

"  You  also  think  he  is  too  good  for  me,"  said  Etta,  with 
a  little  laugh.  There  was  something  in  that  laugh — 
a  ring  of  wounded  vanity,  the  wounded  vanity  of  a  bad 
woman  who  is  in  the  presence  of  her  superior. 

"  No  !  "  answered  Maggie  slowly,  tracing  the  veins  of 
the  marble  across  the  mantel-piece.     "  No — o,  not  that." 

Etta  looked  up  at  her.  It  was  rather  singular  that 
she  did  not  ask  what  Maggie  did  think.  Perhaps  she 
was  afraid  of  a  certain  British  honesty  which  character- 
ized the  girl's  thought  and  speech.  Instead  she  rose 
and  indulged  in  a  yawn  which  may  have  been  counter- 
feit,  but  it  was  a  good  counterfeit. 

"  Will  you  have  a  biscuit?  "  she  said. 

"  No,  thanks." 

"  Then  shall  we  go  to  bed  ?  " 

"Yes." 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE  PKINCE 

The  village  of  Osterno,  lying,  or  rather  scrambling, 
along  the  banks  of  tlie  river  Oster,  is  at  no  time  an  ex- 
hilarating spot.  It  is  a  large  village,  numbering  over 
nine  liundred  souls,  as  the  board  affixed  to  its  first  house 
testifieth  in  incomprehensible  Russian  figures. 

A  "  soul,"  be  it  known,  is  a  different  object  in  the 
land  of  the  Czars  to  that  vague  protoplasm  about  which 
our  young  persons  think  such  mighty  thoughts,  our  old 
men  write  such  famous  big  books.  A  soul  is  namely  a 
man — in  Russia  the  women  have  not  yet  begun  to  seek 
their  rights  and  lose  their  privileges.  A  man  is  there- 
fore a  "soul  "  in  Russia,  and  as  such  enjo^^s  the  doubtful 
privilege  of  contributing  to  the  land-tax  and  to  every 
otiier  tax.  In  compensation  for  the  first-named  impost 
he  is  apportioned  his  share  of  the  common  land  of  the 
village,  and  by  the  cultivation  of  this  ekes  out  an  exist- 
ence which  would  be  valueless  if  he  were  a  teetotaller. 
It  is  melancholy  to  have  to  record  this  fact  in  the  pages 
of  a  respectable  volume  like  the  present ;  but  facts — as  the 
orator  who  deals  in  fiction  is  ever  ready  to  announce — 
facts  cannot  be  ignored.  And  any  man  who  has  lived 
in  Russia,  has  dabbled  in  Russian  humanity,  and  noted 
the  singular  unattractiveness  of  Russian  life — any  such 
man  can  scarcely  deny  the  fact  tliat  if  one  deprives  the 
monjik  of  his  privilege  of  getting  gloriously  and  fre- 
quently intoxicated,  one  takes  away  from  that  same 
moujik  the  one  happiness  of  his  existence. 

That  the  Russian  peasant  is  by  nature  one  of   the 


76  THE     SOWEKS 

ehecricst,  the  noisiest,  and  liglitest-liearted  of  men  is  only 
another  proof  of  tlie  Creator's  power  ;  for  tliis  dimly 
lighted  "soul"  has  nothing  to  cheer  him  on  his  forlorn 
way  but  the  memory  of  the  last  indulgence  in  strong 
drink  and  the  hope  of  more  to  come.  He  is  harassed 
by  a  ruthless  tax-collector  ;  he  is  shut  off  from  the  world 
by  enormous  distances  over  impracticable  roads.  When 
the  famine  comes,  and  come  it  assuredly  will,  the  moujik 
has  no  alternative  but  to  stay  where  he  is  and  starve. 
Since  Alexander  II.  of  philanthropic  memory  made  the 
Russian  serf  a  free  man,  the  blessings  of  freedom  have 
been  found  to  resolve  themselves  chiefly  into  a  perfect 
liberty  to  die  of  starvation,  of  cold,  or  of  dire  disease. 
When  he  was  a  serf  this  man  was  of  some  small  value  to 
some  one  ;  now  he  is  of  no  consequence  to  any  one  what- 
soever except  himself,  and,  with  considerable  intelli- 
gence, he  sets  but  small  store  upon  his  own  existence. 
Freedom,  in  fact,  came  to  him  before  he  was  ready  for 
it ;  and,  hampered  as  he  has  been  bj^  petty  departmental 
tyranny,  governmental  neglect,  and  a  natural  stupidity, 
he  has  made  very  small  progress  toward  a  mental  inde- 
pendence. All  that  he  has  learnt  to  do  is  to  hate  his 
tyrants.  When  famine  urges  him,  he  goes  blindly, 
helplesslj^,  dumbly,  and  tries  to  take  by  force  that 
which  is  denied  by  force. 

With  us  in  England  the  poor  man  raises  up  his  voice 
and  cries  aloud  when  he  wants  something.  He  always 
v.'ants  something — never  work,  by  the  way — and  there- 
fore his  voice  pervades  the  atmosphere.  He  has  his 
evening  newspaper,  which  is  dear  at  the  moderate  sum 
of  a  halfpenn}^  He  has  his  professional  organizers,  and 
his  Trafalgar  Square.  He  even  has  his  members  of  Par- 
liament. He  does  no  work,  and  he  does  not  starve.  In 
his  generation  the  poor  man  thinks  himself  wise.  In 
Russia,  however,  things  are  managed  differently.  The 
poor  man  is  under  the  heel  of  the  rich.     Some  day  there 


THE   PRINCE  11 

will  be  in  Russia  a  Terror,  but  not  jet.  Some  day  tlie 
moujik  will  erect  unto  himself  a  rough  sort  of  a  guillo- 
tine, but  not  in  our  day.  Perhaps  some  of  us  who  are 
young  men  now  may  dimly  read  in  our  dotage  of  a  great 
upheaval  beside  which  the  Terror  of  France  will  be 
tame  and  uneventful.  Who  can  tell  ?  When  a  country 
begins  to  grow,  its  mental  development  is  often  start- 
lingly  rapid. 

But  we  have  to  do  with  Russia  of  to-day,  and  the 
village  of  Osterno  in  the  Government  of  Tver.  Not  a 
"  famine  "  Government,  mind  you  !  For  these  are  the 
Volga  Provinces — Samara,  Pensa,  Voronish,  Vintka, 
and  a  dozen  others.  No  !  Tver  the  civilized,  the  pros- 
perous, the  manufacturing  centre. 

Osterno  is  built  of  wood.  Sliould  it  once  fairly  catch 
alight  in  a  high  wind,  all  that  will  be  left  of  this  town 
will  be  a  few  charred  timbers  and  some  dazed  human 
beings.  The  inhabitants  know  their  own  danger,  and 
endeavor  to  meet  it  in  their  fatalistic  manner.  Each 
village  has  its  fire  organization.  Each  "  soul  "  has  his 
appointed  place,  his  appointed  duty,  and  his  special 
contribution — be  it  bucket  or  rope  or  ladder — to  bring 
to  the  conflagration.  But  no  one  ever  dreams  of  being 
sober  and  vigilant  at  the  right  time,  so  the  organization, 
like  many  larger  such,  is  a  broken  reed. 

The  street,  bounded  on  either  side  by  low  wooden 
houses,  is,  singularly  enough,  well  paved.  This,  tlie 
traveller  is  told,  by  the  tyrant  Prince  Pavlo,  who  made 
the  road  because  he  did  not  like  driving  over  ruts  and 
through  puddles — the  usual  Russian  rural  thoroughfare. 
Not  because  Prince  Pavlo  wanted  to  give  the  peasants 
work,  not  because  he  wanted  to  save  them  from  starva- 
tion— not  at  all,  although,  in  the  gratification  of  his  own 
whim,  he  happened  to  render  those  trifling  services  ;  but 
merely  because  he  was  a  great  "  biirin  " — a  prince  who 
could  have  any  thing  he  desired.     Had  not  the  other 


78  THE     SOWERS 

barin — Steinmetz  by  name — superintended  the  work  ? 
Steinmetz  the  hated,  tlie  loathed,  tlie  tool  of  the  tj^'ant 
whom  they  never  see.  Ask  tlie  "  starost  " — the  mayor 
of  the  village.     He  knows  the  barins,  and  hates  them. 

Michael  Roon,  the  starosta  or  elder  of  Osterno,  presi- 
dent of  the  Mir,  or  village  council,  principal  shopkeeper, 
mayor  and  only  intelligent  soul  of  the  nine  hundred, 
probably  had  Tartar  blood  in  his  veins.  To  this  strain 
may  be  attributed  the  narrow  Tartar  face,  the  keen  black 
eyes,  the  short,  spare  figure  which  many  remember  to 
this  day,  although  Michael  Roon  has  been  dead  these 
many  j^ears. 

Removed  far  above  the  majority  of  his  fellow-villagers 
in  intelligence  and  energy,  this  man  administered  the 
law  of  his  own  will  to  his  colleagues  on  the  village 
council. 

It  was  late  in  the  autumn,  one  evening  remembered 
by  many  for  its  death-roll,  that  the  starosta  was  stand- 
ing at  the  door  of  his  small  shop.  He  was  apparent!}^ 
idle.  He  never  sold  vodka,  and  the  majority  of  the 
villagers  were  in  one  of  the  three  thriving  "  kabaks  " 
which  drove  a  famous  trade  in  strong  drink  and  weak 
tea.  It  was  a  very  hot  evening.  The  sun  had  set  in  a 
pink  haze  which  was  now  turning  to  an  unhealthy  gray, 
and  spreading  over  the  face  of  tlie  western  sky  like  the 
shadow  of  death  across  the  human  countenance. 

The  starosta  shook  his  head  forebodingl3\  It  was 
cholera  weather.  Cholera  liad  come  to  Osterno.  Had 
come,  the  starosta  thought,  to  stay.  It  had  settled  down 
in  Osterno,  and  nothing  but  the  winter  frosts  would  kill 
it,  when  hunger-tj^phus  would  undoubtedly  succeed  it. 

Therefore  the  starosta  shook  his  head  at  the  sunset, 
and  forgot  to  regret  the  badness  of  the  times  from  a 
commercial  point  of  view.  He  had  done  all  he  could. 
He  had  notified  to  the  Zemstvo  the  condition  of  his 
village.     He  liad  made  the  usual  a})peal  for  help,  which 


THE    TRINCE  79 

had  been  forwarded  in  tlie  nsual  way  to  Tver,  where  it 
had  apparently  been  received  with  the  usual  philosopliic 
silence. 

But  Michael  Roon  liad  also  telegraphed  to  Karl  Stein- 
metz,  and  since  tlie  despatch  of  this  message  had  the 
starosta  dropped  into  the  habit  of  standing  at  his  door- 
way in  the  evening,  with  his  hands  clasped  behind  his 
back  and  his  beady  black  eyes  bent  westward  along  the 
prince's  high-road. 

On  the  particular  evening  with  which  we  have  to  do 
tlie  beady  eyes  looked  not  in  vain  ;  for  presently,  far 
along  the  road,  appeared  a  black  speck  like  an  insect 
crawling  over  the  face  of  a  map. 

"  Ah  !  "  said  the  starosta.     "All  !  he  never  fails." 

Presently  a  neighbor  dropped  in  to  bu}^  some  of  the 
dried  leaf  which  tlie  starosta,  honest  tradesman,  called 
tea.  He  found  the  purveyor  of  Cathay's  produce  at  the 
door. 

"  Ah  !  "  he  said,  in  a  voice  thick  with  vodka.  "  You 
see  something  on  the  road  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  A  cart  ?  " 

"  No,  a  carriage.     It  moves  too  quickly." 

A  strange  expression  came  over  the  peasant's  face,  at 
no  time  a  pleasing  physiognomy.  The  bloodshot  eyes 
flared  up  suddenly  like  a  smouldering  flame  in  browi) 
paper.  The  unstead}^,  drink-sodden  lips  twitched.  The 
man  threw  up  his  shaggy  head,  upon  which  hair  and 
beard  mingled  in  unkempt  confusion.  He  glared  along 
the  road  with  eyes  and  face  aglow  with  a  sullen,  beast- 
like hatred. 

"  A  carriage  !     Then  it  is  for  the  castle." 

"  Possibly,"  answered  the  starosta. 

"  The  prince — curse  him,  curse  his  mother's  soul,  curse 
his  wife's  offspring  ! " 

"Yes,"  said  the  starosta  quietly.     "Yes,  curse    him 


80  THE     SOWERS 

and  all  his  works.  What  is  it  you  want,  little  father — 
tea  ?  " 

He  turned  into  the  shop  and  served  his  customer,  duh^ 
inscribing  the  debt  among  others  in  a  rough,  cheap 
book. 

The  word  soon  spread  that  a  carriage  was  coming 
along  the  road  from  Tver.  All  the  villagers  came  to 
the  doors  of  their  dilapidated  wooden  huts.  Even  the 
kabaks  were  emptied  for  a  time.  As  the  vehicle  ap- 
proached it  became  apparent  that  the  horses  were  going 
at  a  great  pace  ;  not  only  was  the  loose  horse  galloping, 
but  also  the  pair  in  the  shafts.  The  carriage  was  an 
open  one,  an  ordinary  ISTorth  Russian  travelling  carriage, 
not  unlike  the  vehicle  we  call  the  victoria,  set  on  high 
wheels. 

Beside  the  driver  on  the  box  sat  another  servant.  In 
the  open  carriage  sat  one  man  only,  Karl  Steinmetz. 

As  he  passed  through  the  village  a  murmur  of  many 
voices  followed  him,  not  quite  drowned  by  the  rattle 
of  his  wheels,  the  clatter  of  the  horses'  feet.  The  mur- 
mur was  a  curse.  Karl  Steinmetz  heard  it  distinctly. 
It  made  him  smile  with  a  queer  expression  beneath  his 
great  gray  mustache. 

The  starosta,  standing  in  his  door-way,  saw  the  smile. 
He  raised  his  voice  with  his  neighbors  and  cursed.  As 
Steinmetz  passed  him  he  gave  a  little  jerk  of  the  head 
toward  the  castle.  The  jerk  of  the  head  might  have 
been  due  to  an  inequality  of  the  road,  but  it  might  also 
convey  an  appointment.  Tlie  keen,  haggard  face  of 
Michael  Roon  showed  no  sign  of  mutual  understand- 
ing. And  the  carriage  rattled  on  through  the  stricken 
village. 

Two  hours  later,  when  it  was  quite  dark,  a  closed 
carringe,  with  two  bright  lamps  flaring  into  the  night, 
passed  through  the  village  toward  the  castle  at  a 
gallop. 


THE    PRINCE  81 

"  It  is  the  prince,"  the  peasants  said,  crouching  in  their 
low  door-\va3^s.  "  It  is  the  prince.  We  know  his  bells — 
they  are  of  silver — and  we  shall  starve  during  the 
winter.     Curse  him — curse  him  !  " 

They  raised  their  heads  and  listened  to  the  galloping 
feet  with  the  patient,  dumb  despair  which  is  the  curse 
of  the  Slavonic  race.  Some  of  them  crept  to  their 
doors,  and,  looking  up,  saw  that  the  castle  windows  were 
ablaze  with  light.  If  Paul  Howard  Alexis  was  a  plain 
English  gentleman  in  London,  he  was  also  a  great 
prince  in  his  country,  keeping  up  a  princely  state,  en- 
joying the  gilded  solitude  that  belongs  to  the  high-born. 
His  Enoflish  education  had  educed  a  strict  sense  of  dis- 
cipline,  and  as  in  England,  and,  indeed,  all  through  his 
life,  so  in  Russia  did  he  attempt  to  do  his  duty. 

The  carriage  rattled  up  to  the  brilliantly  lighted  door, 
which  stood  open,  and  within,  on  either  side  of  the 
broad  entrance-hall,  the  servants  stood  to  welcome  their 
master.  A  strange,  picturesque,  motley  crew  :  the  major- 
domo,  in  his  black  coat,  and  beside  him  the  other  house- 
servants — tall,  upright  fellows,  in  their  bright  liver5^ 
Beyond  them  the  stable-men  and  keepers,  a  little  army, 
in  red  cloth  tunics,  with  wide  trousers  tucked  into  liigh 
boots,  all  holding  their  fur  caps  in  their  hands,  stan<l- 
ing  stiffly  at  attention,  clean,  honest,  and  not  too  in- 
telligent. 

The  castle  of  Osterno  is  built  on  the  lines  of  many 
Russian  country  seats,  and  not  a  few  palaces  in  Moscow, 
Tiie  Royal  Palace  in  the  Kremlin  is  an  example.  A 
broad  entrance-hall,  at  the  back  of  which  a  staircase  as 
broad  stretches  up  to  a  gallery,  around  which  the  dwel- 
ling-rooms are  situated.  At  the  head  of  the  staircase, 
directly  facing  the  entrance-hall,  high  folding  doors  dis- 
close the  drawing-room,  which  is  almost  a  throne  room. 
All  gorgeous,  lofty,  spacious,  as  only  Russian  houses  are. 
Truly  this  northern  empire,  this  great  white  land,  is  a 
6 


82  THE     SOWEES 

country  in  which  it  is  good  to  be  an  emperor,  a  prince, 
a  noble,  but  not  a  poor  man. 

Paul  passed  through  tlie  ranks  of  his  retainers,  him- 
self a  head  taller  than  tlie  tallest  footman,  a  few  inches 
broader  than  the  sturdiest  keeper.  He  acknowledged 
the  low  bows  by  a  quick  nod,  and  passed  up  the  stair- 
case. Steinmetz — in  evening  dress,  wearing  the  insignia 
of  one  or  two  orders  which  he  had  won  in  the  moie 
active  days  of  his  earlier  diplomatic  life — was  waiting 
for  him  at  the  head  of  the  stairs. 

The  two  men  bowed  gravely  to  each  other.  Stein- 
metz threw  open  the  door  of  tlie  great  room  and  stood 
aside.  The  prince  passed  on,  and  the  German  followed 
him,  each  pla3^ing  his  part  gravely,  as  men  in  high 
places  are  called  to  do.  When  the  door  was  closed  be- 
hind them  and  thej^  were  alone,  there  was  no  relaxation, 
no  smile  of  covert  derision.  These  men  knew  the 
Russian  character  thoroughly.  There  is,  be  it  known, 
no  more  impressionable  man  on  the  face  of  God's  earth. 
Paul  and  Steinmetz  had  played  their  parts  so  long  that 
these  came  to  be  natural  to  them  as  soon  as  they  passed 
the  Volga.  We  are  all  so  in  a  minor  degree.  In  each 
house,  to  each  of  our  friends,  we  are  unconsciously  dif- 
ferent in  some  particular.  One  man  holds  us  in  awe, 
and  we  unconsciously  instil  that  feeling.  Another 
considers  us  a  buffoon,  and,  lo  !  we  are  exceedingly 
funny. 

Paul  and  Steinmetz  knew  that  the  people  around 
them  in  Osterno  were  somewhat  like  the  dumb  and 
driven  beast.  These  peasants  required  overawing  by 
a  careful  display  of  pomp — an  unrelaxed  dignit3^  The 
line  of  demarcation  between  the  noble  and  the  peasant 
is  so  marked  in  the  land  of  the  Czar  that  it  is-  difficult 
for  Englishmen  to  realize  or  believe  it.  It  is  like  the 
line  that  is  drawn  between  us  and  our  dogs.  If  we  sup- 
pose it  possible  that  dogs  could  be  taught  to  act  and 


THE    PRINCE  83 

think  for  tliemselves  ;  if  we  take  such  a  development 
as  practicable,  and  consider  tlie  possibilities  of  social 
uplieaval  lying  behind  sucli  an  education,  we  can  in  a 
minute  degree  realize  the  problem  which  Prince  Pavlo 
Alexis  and  all  his  fellow-nobles  will  be  called  upon  to 
solve  within  the  lifetime  of  men  already  born. 


CHAPTER  X 

THE     MOSCOW     DOCTOR 

"  Colossal  ! "  exclaimed  Steinmetz,  beneath  his 
breath.  With  a  little  trick  of  the  tongue  he  trans- 
ferred his  cigar  from  the  right-hand  to  the  left-hand 
corner  of  his  month.     "  Colossal — 1  !  "  he  repeated. 

For  a  moment  Paul  looked  up  from  the  papers  spread 
out  on  the  table  before  him — looked  with  the  preoccu- 
pied air  of  a  man  who  is  adding  up  something  in  his 
mind.  Then  he  returned  to  liis  occupation.  He  liad 
been  at  this  work  for  four  hours  without  a  break.  It 
was  nearly  one  o'clock  in  the  morning.  Since  dinner 
Karl  Steinmetz  had  consumed  no  less  tlian  five  cigars, 
while  he  had  not  spoken  five  words.  These  two  men, 
locked  in  a  small  room  in  the  middle  of  the  castle  of 
Osterno — a  room  with  no  window,  but  wliich  gained 
its  light  from  the  clear  heaven  by  a  shaft  and  a  sky- 
light on  the  roof — locked  in  thus  they  had  been  engaged 
in  the  addition  of  an  enormous  mass  of  figures.  Each 
sheet  had  been  carefully  annotated  and  added  b}^  Stein- 
metz, and  as  each  was  finished  he  handed  it  to  his 
companion. 

"Is  that  fool  never  coming?"  asked  Paul,  with  an 
impatient  glance  at  the  clock. 

"  Our  very  dear  friend  the  starosta,"  replied  Stein- 
metz, "  is  no  slave  to  time.     He  is  late." 

The  room  had  the  appearance  of  an  ofiice.  There 
were  two  safes — square  chests  such  as  we  learn  to 
associate  with  the  name  of  Griffiths  in  this  country. 
There    was    a  huge   writing-table— a    double    tabic — at 


THE    MOSCOW    DOCTOR  85 

whicli  Paul  and  Steiinnetz  were  seated.  There  were 
sundry  stationery  cases  and  an  almanac  or  so  suspended 
on  the  walls,  wliich  were  oaken  panels.  A  large  white 
gtove— common  to  all  Russian  rooms— stood  against 
the  wall.  The  room  had  no  less  than  three  doors,  witli 
a  handle  on  no  one  of  tliem.  Each  door  opened  with 
a  key,  like  a  cupboard. 

Steinmetz  had  apparently  finished  his  work.  He  was 
sitting  back  in  his  chair,  contemplating  his  companion 
with  a  little  smile.  It  apparently  tickled  some  obtuse 
Teutonic  sense  of  humor  to  see  this  prince  doing  work 
which  is  usually  assigned  to  clerks— working  out 
statistics  and  abstruse  calculations  as  to  how  much  food 
is  required  to  keep  body  and  soul  together. 

The  silence  of  the  room  was  almost  oppressive.  A 
Russian  village  after  nightfall  is  the  quietest  human 
habitation  on  earth.  For  the  moujik— the  native  of 
a  country  which  will  some  day  supply  the  universe 
with  petroleum— cannot  afPord  to  light  up  his  humble 
abode,  and  therefore  sits  in  darkness.  Had  the  village 
of  Osterno  possessed  the  liveliness  of  a  Spanish  hamlet, 
the  sound  of  voices  and  laughter  could  not  have  reached 
the  castle  perched  high  up  on  the  rock  above. 

But  Osterno  was  asleep  :  the  castle  servants  had 
long  gone  to  rest,  and  the  great  silence  of  Russia 
wrapped  its  wings  over  all.  When,  therefore,  the 
clear,  coughing  bark  of  a  wolf  was  heard,  both  occu- 
pants of  the  ^little  room  looked  up.  The  sound  was 
re})eated,  and  Steinmetz  slowly  rose  from  his  seat. 

"I  can  quite  believe  that  our  friend  is  able  to  call 
a  wolf  or  a  lynx  to  him,"  he  said.  "  He  does  it  un- 
cannily well." 

"  I  have  seen  him  do  so,"  said  Paul,  without  looking 
up.  "  But  it  is  a  common  enough  accomplishment 
among  the  keepers." 

Steinmetz  had  left  the  room  before  he  finished  speak- 


86  THE     SOWERS 

ing.  One  of  the  doors  of  this  little  room  communicated 
with  a  large  apartment  used  as  a  secretary's  office,  and 
through  tliis  by  a  small  staircase  with  a  side  entrance 
to  the  castle.  By  this  side  entrance  the  stewards  of  the 
different  outlying  estates  were  conducted  to  the  pres- 
ence of  the  resident  secretary — a  German  selected  and 
overawed  b}?"  Karl  Steinmetz — a  mere  calculating 
machine  of  a  man,  with  whom  we  have  no  affairs  to 
transact. 

Before  many  minutes  had  elapsed  Steinmetz  came 
back,  closely  followed  by  the  starosta,  whose  black  eyes 
twinkled  and  gleamed  in  the  sudden  light  of  the  lamp. 
He  dropped  on  his  knees  when  he  saw  Paul — sud- 
denly, abjectly,  like  an  animal,  in  his  dumb  attitude  of 
deprecation. 

With  a  jerk  of  his  head  Paul  bade  him  rise,  which 
the  man  did,  standing  back  against  the  panelled  wall, 
placing  as  great  a  distance  between  himself  and  the 
prince  as  the  size  of  the  room  would  allow. 

*' Well,"  said  Paul  curtl}^,  almost  roughly,  *'  I  hear  you 
are  in  trouble  in  the  village." 

*'The  cholera  has  come,  Excellency." 

"  Many  deaths  ?  " 

"  To-day — eleven." 

Paul  looked  up  sharply. 

*' And  the  doctor?" 

"  He  has  not  come  yet.  Excellency.  I  sent  for  him — 
a  fortnight  ago.  The  cholera  is  at  Oseff,  at  Dolja^  at 
Kalislieffa.  It  is  everywhere.  He  has  forty  thousand 
souls  under  his  care.  He  has  to  obey  the  Zemstvo,  to 
go  where  they  tell  him.     He  takes  no  notice  of  me." 

"Yes,"  interrupted  Paul,  "I  know.  And  the  people 
themselves,  do  they  attempt  to  understand  it — to  follow 
out  my  instructions?" 

^riie  starosta  spread  out  his  thin  hands  in  deprecation. 
He  cringed  a  little  as  he  stood.     He  liad  Jewish  blood 


THE    MOSCOW    DOCTOR  87 

in  his  veins,  whicli,  wliile  it  r.aised  him  above  his  fellows 
in  Osterno,  carried  with  it  the  usual  tendency  to  cringe. 
It  is  in  the  blood  ;  it  is  part  of  what  the  people  who 
stood  without  Pilate's  palace  took  upon  themselves  and 
upon  their  children. 

"Your  Excellency,"  he  said,  "knows  what  they  are. 
It  is  slow.  They  make  no  progress.  For  them  one 
disease  is  as  another.  *Bog  dal  e  Bog  vzial,'  they 
say.     '  God  gave  and  God  took  ! '  " 

He  paused,  his  black  eyes  flashing  from  one  face  to 
the  other. 

"  Only  the  Moscow  doctor,  Excellencj^,"  he  said 
significantly,  "  can  manage  them." 

Paul  shrugged  his  shoulders.  He  rose  from  his  seat, 
glancing  at  Steinmetz,  who  was  looking  on  in  silence, 
with  his  queer,  mocking  smile. 

"  I  will  go  with  you  now,"  he  said.  "  It  is  late 
enough  already." 

The  starosta  bowed  very  low,  but  he  said  nothing. 

Paul  went  to  a  cupboard  and  took  from  it  an  old  fur 
coat,  dragged  at  the  seams,  stained  about  the  cuffs  a 
dull  brown — doctors  know  tlie  color.  Such  stains  have 
hanged  a  man  before  now,  for  they  are  the  marks  of 
blood.  Paul  put  on  this  coat.  Pie  took  a  long,  soft 
silken  scarf  such  as  Russians  wear  in  winter,  and 
wrapped  it  round  his  throat,  quite  concealing  tlie  lower 
part  of  his  face.  He  crammed  a  fur  cap  down  over  his 
ears. 

"  Come,"  he  said. 

Karl  Steinmetz  accompanied  them  down  stairs,  carry- 
ing a  lamp  in  one  hand.  He  closed  the  door  behind 
them,  but  did  not  lock  it.  Then  he  went  upstairs  again 
to  the  quiet  little  room,  wdiere  he  sat  dowm  in  a  deep 
chair.  He  looked  at  the  open  door  of  the  cupboard 
from  which  Paul  Alexis  had  taken  his  simple  disguise, 
with  a  large,  tolerant  humor. 


88  THE     SOWERS 

"  El  Senor  Don  Quixote  de  la  Mancba,"  he  said  sleepily. 

It  is  said  that  to  a  doctor  nothing  is  shocking  and 
nothing  is  disgusting.  But  doctors  are,  after  all,  only 
men  of  stomach  like  the  rest  of  us,  and  it  is  to  be  pre- 
sumed that  what  nauseates  one  will  nauseate  the  other. 
When  the  starosta  unceremoniously  threw  open  the  door 
of  the  miserable  cabin  belonging  to  Vasilli  Tula,  Paul 
gave  a  little  gasp.  The  foul  air  pouring  out  of  the 
noisome  den  was  such  that  it  seemed  impossible  that 
human  lungs  could  assimilate  it.  This  Vasilli  Tula  was 
a  notorious  drunkard,  a  discontent,  a  braggart.  The 
Nihilist  propaganda  had  in  the  early  days  of  that  mis- 
taken mission  reached  him  and  unsettled  his  discontented 
mind.  Misfortune  seemed  to  pursue  him.  In  higher 
grades  of  life  than  his  there  are  men  who,  like  Tula, 
make  a  profession  of  misfortune. 

Paul  stumbled  down  two  steps  The  cottage  was 
dark.  The  starosta  had  apparently  trodden  on  a 
chicken,  which  screamed  shrilly  and  fluttered  about  in 
the  dark  w^ith  that  complete  abandon  which  belongs  to 
chickens,  sheep,  and  some  women. 

"Have  you  no  light?"  cried  the  starosta. 

Paul  retreated  to  the  top  step,  where  he  had  a  short- 
lived struggle  with  a  well-grown  calf  which  had  been 
living  in  the  room  with  the  faniil}^,  and  evinced  a  very 
creditable  desire  for  fresh  air. 

"Yes,  yes,  we  have  a  little  petroleum,"  said  a  voice. 
"But  we  have  no  matches." 

The  starosta  struck  a  light. 

"  I  have  brought  the  Moscow  doctor  to  see  you." 

"  The  Moscow  doctor  !  "  cried  several  voices.  "  Sbo- 
gOTu — sbogom  !     God  be  with  you  !" 

In  the  dim  light  the  wdiole  of  the  floor  seemed  to  get 
up  and  shake  itself.  There  were  at  least  seven  persons 
sleeping  in  the  hut.  Two  of  them  did  not  get  up.  One 
was  dead.     The  other  was  dying  of  cholera. 


THE    MOSCOW    DOCTOR  89 

A  lieavily  built  man  reached  down  from  tlie  top  of 
the  bi"ick  stove  a  cheap  tin  paraffin  lamp,  which  he 
handed  to  the  starosta.  By  the  light  of  this  Paul  came 
again  into  the  hut.  The  floor  was  filthy,  as  may  be 
imagined,  for  beasts  and  human  beings  lived  here 
together. 

The  man — Vasilli  Tula — threw  himself  down  on  his 
knees,  clawing  at  Paul's  coat  with  great  unwashed 
hands,  whining  out  a  tale  of  sorrow  and  misfortune.  In 
a  moment  they  were  all  on  their  knees,  clinging  to  him, 
crying  to  him  for  help  :  Tula  himself,  a  wild-looking 
Slav  of  fifty  or  thereabouts  ;  his  wife,  haggard,  emaci- 
ated, horrible  to  look  upon,  for  she  was  toothless 
and  almost  blind  ;  two  women  and  a  loutish  boy  of 
sixteen. 

Paul  pushed  liis  way,  not  unkindly,  toward  the  corner 
where  the  two  motionless  forms  lay  half  concealed  by  a 
mass  of  ragged  sheepskin. 

"  Here,"  he  said,  "  this  woman  is  dead.  Take  her 
out.  Wiien  will  you  learn  to  be  clean  ?  This  boy  may 
live — with  care.  Bring  the  light  closer,  little  mother. 
So,  it  is  well.  He  will  live.  Come,  don't  sit  crying. 
Take  all  these  rags  out  and  burn  them.  All  of  you  go 
out.  It  is  a  fine  night.  You  are  better  in  the  cart-shed 
than  here.  Here,  you,  Tula,  go  round  with  the  starosta 
to  his  store.     He  will  give  you  clean  blankets." 

They  obeyed  him  blindly.  Tula  and  one  of  the  young 
women  (his  daughters)  dragged  the  dead  body,  which 
was  that  of  a  very  old  woman,  out  into  the  night.  The 
starosta  had  retired  to  the  door-way  when  the  lamp  was 
lighted,  his  courage  having  failed  him.  Tiie  air  was 
foul  with  the  reek  of  smoke  and  filth  and  infection. 

"  Come,  Vasilli  Tula,"  the  village  elder  said,  with 
suspicious  eagerness.  "  Come  with  me,  I  will  give  you 
what  the  good  doctor  says.  Though  you  owe  me 
money,  and  you  never  try  to  pay  me." 


90  THE     SOWERS 

But  Tula  was  kissing  and  mumbling  over  the  herii  of 
Paul's  coat.     Paul  took  no  notice  of  hira. 

"  We  are  starving,  Excellency,"  the  man  was  saying. 
"  I  can  get  no  work.  I  had  to  sell  my  horse  in  the 
winter,  and  I  cannot  plough  my  little  piece  of  land. 
The  Government  will  not  help  us.  The  Prince — curse 
him  ! — does  nothing  for  us.  He  lives  in  Petersburg, 
where  he  spends  all  his  money,  and  has  food  and  wine 
more  tlian  he  wants.  The  Count  Stepan  Lanovitch 
used  to  assist  us — God  be  with  him  !  But  he  has  been 
sent  to  Siberia  because  he  helped  the  peasants.  He  was 
like  you  ;  he  was  a  great  barin,  a  great  noble,  and 
yet  he  helped  the  peasants." 

Paul  turned  round  sharply  and  shook  the  man  off. 

''  Go,"  he  said,  "  witli  the  starosta  and  get  what  I 
tell  you.  A  great,  strong  fellow  like  you  lias  no  busi- 
ness on  his  knees  to  any  man  !  I  will  not  help  you 
unless  you  help  yourself.  You  are  a  lazy  good-for- 
nothing.     Get  out  !  " 

He  pushed  him  out  of  the  hut,  and  kicked  after  hira 
a  few  rags  of  clothing  which  were  lying  about  on  the 
floor,  all  filthy  and  slimy. 

"  Good  God ! "  muttered  he  under  his  breath,  in 
English,  "that  a  place  like  this  should  exist  beneath 
the  very  walls  of  Osterno  !  " 

From  hut  to  hut  he  went  all  through  that  night  on 
his  mission  of  mercy — without  enthusiasm,  without  high- 
flown  notions  respecting  mankind,  but  with  the  simple 
sense  of  duty  that  was  his.  These  people  were  his 
things— his  dumb  and  driven  beasts.  In  his  heart  there 
may  have  existed  a  grudge  against  the  Almighty  for 
placing  him  in  a  position  which  was  not  only  intensely 
disagreeable,  but  also  somewhat  ridiculous.  For  he  did 
not  dare  to  tell  his  friends  of  these  things.  He  had 
spoken  of  them  to  no  man  except  Karl  Steinmetz,  who 
was  in  a  sense  his  dependent.     English   public  school 


IN   A   MOMENT   THF.Y   WERE   ALL   ON   THEIR   KNEES 


THE    MOSCOW    DOCTOR  91 

and  university  had  instilled  into  him  tlie  intensely 
British  feeling  of  shame  respecting  good  works,  lie 
could  take  chaff  as  well  as  any  man,  for  lie  was  grave 
by  habit,  and  a  grave  man  receives  the  most  chaff  most 
good-humoredly.  But  he  had  a  nervous  dread  of  being 
found  out.  He  had  made  a  sort  of  religion  of  sui)pre8s- 
iiig  the  fact  that  he  was  a  prince  ;  the  hoh^  of  holies  of 
this  cult  was  the  fact  that  he  was  a  prince  who  sought  to 
do  good  to  his  neighbor — a  prince  in  whom  one  might 
repose  trust. 

This  was  not  the  first  time  by  any  number  that  he 
had  gone  down  into  his  own  village  insisting  in  a  rough- 
and-ready  way  on  cleanliness  and  purity. 

"  The  Moscow  doctor" — the  peasants  would  say  in  the 
kabak  over  their  vodka  and  their  tea — "the  Moscow 
doctor  comes  in  and  kicks  our  beds  out  of  the  door, 
lie  comes  in  and  throws  our  furniture  into  the  street 
But  afterward  he  gives  us  new  beds  and  new  fur- 
niture." 

It  was  a  joke  that  alwaj^s  obtained  in  the  kabak. 
It  flavored  the  vodka,  and  with  that  fiery  poison  served 
to  raise  a  laugh. 

The  Moscow  doctor  was  looked  upon  in  Osterno  and 
in  many  neighboring  villages  as  second  only  to  God. 
In  fact,  man}^  of  the  peasants  placed  him  before  their 
Creator.  They  were  stupid,  vodka-soddened,  hapless 
men.  The  Moscow  doctor  they  could  see  for  them- 
selves, lie  came  in,  a  very  tangible  thing  of  flesh  and 
blood,  built  on  a  large  and  manly  scale  ;  he  took  them 
by  the  shoulders  and  bundled  them  out  of  their  own 
houses,  kicking  their  bedding  after  them.  He  scolded 
them,  he  rated  them  and  abused  them.  He  brought 
them  food  and  medicine.  He  understood  the  diseases 
which  from  time  to  time  swept  over  their  villages.  No 
cold  was  too  intense  for  him  to  brave  should  they  be  in 
distress.     He  asked  no  money,  and  he  gave  none.     But 


92  THE     SOWERS 

they  lived  on  his  charity,  and  they  were  wise  enough  to 
know  it. 

What  wonder  if  these  poor  wretches  loved  the  man 
wlioni  they  could  see  and  hear  above  the  God  who  mani- 
fested himself  to  them  in  no  way !  The  orthodox 
priests  of  their  villages  had  no  money  to  spend  on  their 
parishioners.  On  the  contrarj^,  they  asked  for  money 
to  keep  the  churches  in  repair.  What  wonder,  then,  if 
these  poor  ignorant,  helpless  peasants  would  listen  to  no 
priest  ;  for  the  priest  could  not  explain  to  them  why  it 
was  that  God  sent  a  four-month-long  winter  which  cut 
them  off  from  the  rest  of  the  world  behind  impassable 
barriers  of  snow  ;  tliat  God  sent  them  droughts  in  the 
summer  so  that  there  was  no  crop  of  rye  ;  that  God 
scourged  them  with  dread  and  horrible  disease  ! 

It  is  almost  impossible  for  us  to  realize,  in  these  days 
of  a  lamentably  cheap  press  and  a  cheaper  literature, 
the  mental  condition  of  men  and  women  who  have  no 
education,  no  newspaper,  no  news  of  the  world,  no  com- 
munication with  the  universe.  To  them  the  myster^^  of 
the  Moscow  doctor  was  as  incomprehensible  as  to  us  is 
the  Deit3^  The}''  were  so  near  to  the  animals  that  Paul 
could  not  succeed  in  teaching  them  that  disease  and 
deatli  followed  on  the  heels  of  dirt  and  neglect.  They 
Avere  too  ignorant  to  reason,  too  low  down  the  animal 
scale  to  comprehend  things  which  some  of  the  dumb 
animals  undoubtedly  recognize. 

Paul  Alexis,  half  Russian,  half  English,  understood 
these  people  very  thoroughly.  He  took  advantage  of 
their  ignorance,  their  simplicity,  their  unfathomable 
superstition.  He  governed  as  no  other  could  have  ruled 
them,  by  fear  and  kindness  at  once.  He  mastered  them 
b}^  his  vitality,  the  wholesome  strength  of  his  nature, 
his  infinite  superiority.  He  avoided  the  terrible  mis- 
take of  the  Nihilists  by  treating  them  as  children  to 
whom  education  must  be  given  little  by  little  instead  of 


THE    MOSCOW    DOCTOR  93 

throwing  down  before  them  a  mass  of  dangerous  knowl- 
edge which  their  minds,  unaccustomed  to  such  strong 
food,  are  incapable  of  digesting. 

A  British  coldness  of  blood  damped  as  it  were  the 
Russian  quixotism  which  would  desire  to  see  result 
follow  upon  action— to  see  the  world  make  quicker  prog- 
ress than  its  Creator  has  decreed.  With  very  unsatis- 
factory material  Paul  was  setting  in  motion  a  great 
rock  which  will  roll  down  into  the  ages  unconnected 
with  his  name,  clearing  a  path  through  a  very  thick 
forest  of  ignorance  and  tyranny. 


CHAPTER  XI 

CATKINA 

The  man  who  carries  a  deceit,  however  innocent, 
with  him  through  life  is  apt  to  be  somewhat  liandi- 
capped  in  that  unfair  competition.  He  is  like  a  ship  at 
sea  with  a  "sprung"  mainmast.  A  side  breeze  may 
arise  at  any  moment  which  throws  him  all  aback  and 
upon  his  beam-ends.  He  runs  illegitimate  risks,  which 
are  things  much  given  to  dragging  at  a  man's  mind, 
handicapping  his  thoughts. 

Paul  suffered  in  this  way.  It  was  a  distinct  burthen 
to  him  to  play  a  double  part,  although  each  was  inno- 
cent enough  in  itself.  At  school,  and  later  on  at  the 
'Varsity,  he  had  consistently  and  steadily  suppressed  a 
truth  from  friend  and  foe  alike — namely,  that  he  was  in 
hie  own  country  a  prince.  No  great  crime  on  the  face 
of  it  ;  but  a  constant  suppression  of  a  very  small  truth 
is  as  burdensome  as  any  suggestion  of  falsehood.  It 
makes  one  afraid  of  contemptible  foes,  and  doubtful  of 
the  value  of  one's  own  friendship. 

Paul  was  a  simple-minded  man.  He  was  not  afraid 
of  the  Russian  Government.  Indeed,  he  cultivated  a 
fine  contempt  for  that  august  body.  But  he  Avas  dis- 
tinctly afraid  of  being  found  out,  for  that  discovery 
could  only  mean  an  incontinent  cessation  of  the  good 
woi-k  which  rendered  his  life  happy. 

The  fear  of  being  deprived  of  this  interest  in  exist- 
ence should  certainly  have  been  lessened,  if  not  quite 
allayed,  by  the  fact  that  a  greater  interest  had  been 
brought  into  his  life  in  the  pleasant  form  ol'  a  prospec- 


CATRINA  95 

tive  wife.  When  he  was  in  London  with  Etta  Sydney 
Bamborough  he  did  not,  however,  forget  Osterno.  He 
only  longed  for  the  time  when  he  could  take  Etta 
freely  into  his  confidence  and  engage  her  interest  in  the 
object  of  his  ambition — namely,  to  make  the  huge 
Osterno  estate  into  that  lump  of  leaven  which  might  in 
time  leaven  the  whole  of  the  empire. 

That  a  man  is  capable  of  sustaining  two  absorbing 
interests  at  once  is  a  matter  of  every-day  illustration. 
Are  we  not  surrounded  by  men  who  do  their  work  Avell 
in  life,  and  love  their  wives  well  at  home,  without  allow- 
ing the  one  to  interfere  with  the  other?  That  wouien 
are  capable  of  the  same  seems  exceedingly  probable. 
But  we  are  a  race  of  sheep  wlio  run  after  each  other, 
guided  for  the  moment  by  a  catchword  which  will  not 
bear  investigation,  or  an  erroneous  deduction  set  in 
alliterative  verse  which  clings  to  the  mind  and  sways  it. 
Thus  we  all  think  hat  woman's  wliole  existence  is,  and 
is  only  capable  of,  love,  because  a  poet,  in  the  trickiness 
of  his  trade,  once  said  so. 

Now,  Paul  held  a  different  opinion.  He  thought  that 
Etta  could  manage  to  love  him  well,  as  she  said  she  did, 
and  yet  take  an  interest  in  that  which  was  in  reality  the 
object  of  his  life.  He  intended  to  take  the  earliest 
opportunity  of  telling  her  all  about  the  work  he  was 
endeavoring  to  carry  out  at  Osterno,  and  the  knowledge 
that  he  was  withholding  something  from  her  was  a  con- 
stant burden  to  an  upright  and  Iionest  nature. 

"I  think,"  he  said  one  morning  to  Steinmetz,  "that  I 
will  ^vrite  and  tell  Mrs.  Sydney  Bamborough  all  about 
this  place." 

"  I  should  not  do  that,"  replied  Steinmetz  with  a 
leisurely  promptitude. 

They  were  alone  in  a  great  srtioking-room  of  which 
the  walls  were  hung  all  round  with  hunting  trophies. 
Paul   was  smoking  a  post-prandial    cigar.      Steinmetz 


96  THE     SOWERS 

reflected  gravely  over  a  pipe.  Tliey  were  both  reading 
Russian  newspapers — periodicals  chiefly  remarkable  for 
that  which  the}^  leave  unsaid. 

"  Why  not  ?  "  asked  Paul. 

"  On  principle.  Never  tell  a  woman  that  which  is  not 
interesting  enough  to  magnify  into  a  secret." 

Paul  turned  over  his  newspaper.  He  began  reading 
again.     Then,  suddenly,  he  looked  up. 

"  We  are  engaged  to  be  married,"  he  observed 
pointedly. 

Steinmetz  took  his  pipe  from  his  lips  slowly  and 
imperturbably.  He  was  a  man  to  whom  it  was  no  satis- 
faction to  impart  news.  He  either  knew  it  before  or 
did  not  take  much  interest  in  the  matter. 

"That  makes  it  worse,"  he  said.  "A  woman  only 
conceals  what  is  bad  about  her  husband.  If  she  knows 
anything  that  is  likely  to  make  other  women  think  that 
their  husbands  are  inferior,  she  will  tell  it." 

Paul  laughed. 

"  But  this  is  not  good,"  he  argued.  "  We  have  kept 
it  so  confoundedly  quiet  that  I  am  beginning  to  feel  as 
if  it  is  a  crime." 

Steinmetz  uncrossed  his  legs,  crossed  them  again,  and 
theu  spoke  after  mature  reflection  : 

"  As  I  understand  the  law  of  libel,  a  man  is  punished, 
not  for  telling  a  lie,  but  for  telling  either  the  truth  or  a 
lie  with  malicious  intent.  I  imagine  the  Almighty  will 
take  the  intent  into  consideration,  if  human  justice  finds 
it  expedient  to  do  so  !  " 

Paul  shrugged  his  shoulders.  Argument  was  not  his 
strong  point,  and,  like  most  men  who  cannot  argue,  he 
was  almost  impervious  to  the  arguments  of  others.  He 
recognized  the  necessity  for  secrecy — the  absolute  need 
of  a  thousand  little  secretive  precautions  and  disguises 
whi(rh  were  intensely  disagreeable  to  him.  ]>ut  he  also 
grun»bl(Ml  at  them  freelj^,  and  whenever  he  made  such 


CATRINA  97 

objection  Karl  Steinmetz  grew  uneasy,  as  if  the  question 

wliicli  lie  disposed  of  with  facile  philosophy  or  humor- 
ous resignation  had  behind  it  a  possibility  and  an  impor- 
tance of  wliich  he  was  fully  aware.  It  was  on  these  rare 
occasions  that  he  might  have  conveyed  to  a  keen  observer 
the  impression  that  he  was  playing  a  very  dangerous 
game  with  a  smiling  countenance. 

"  All  that  we  do,"  pursued  Steinmetz, "  is  to  bow  to  a 
lamentable  necessity  for  deceit.  I  have  bowed  to  it  all 
my  life.  It  has  been  ray  trade,  perhaps.  It  is  not  our 
fault  that  we  are  placed  in  charge  of  four  or  five  thou- 
sand human  beings  who  are  no  more  capable  of  helping 
themselves  than  are  sheep.  It  is  not  our  fault  that  the 
forefathers  of  these  sheep  cut  down  the  forests  and 
omitted  to  plant  more,  so  that  the  flocks  with  whom  we 
have  to  deal  have  no  fuel.  It  is  not  our  fault  that  a 
most  terrific  winter  annually  renders  the  land  unproduc- 
tive for  four  months.  It  is  not  our  fault  that  the  govern- 
ment to  which  we  are  forced  to  bow — the  Czar  whose 
name  lifts  our  hats  from  our  heads — it  is  not  our 
fault  that  progress  and  education  are  taboo,  and  that 
all  who  endeavor  to  forward  the  cause  of  humanity 
are  promptly  put  away  in  a  safe  place  where  they  are  at 
liberty  to  forward  their  own  salvation  and  nothing  else. 
Nothing  is  our  fault,  mein  lieber,  in  this  countr}'-.  We 
have  to  make  the  best  of  adverse  circumstances.  We 
are  not  breaking  any  human  law,  and  in  doing  nothing 
we  should  be  breaking  a  divine  command." 

Paul  flicked  the  ash  off  his  cigar.  He  had  heard  all 
this  before.  Karl  Steinmetz's  words  were  usually  more 
remarkable  for  solid  thoughtfulness  than  for  brilliancy 
of  conception  or  any  great  novelty  of  expression. 

"  Oh  !  "  said  Paul  quietly,  "  I  am  not  going  to  leave 
off.     You  need  not  fear  that.     Only  I  shall  have  to  tell  my 
wife.     Surely  a  woman  could  help  us  in  a  thousand  ways. 
There  is  such  a  lot  that  only  a  woman  understands." 
7 


98  THE     SOWEKS 

"  Yes  !  "  grunted  Steinmetz  ;  "  and  only  the  right  sort 
of  woman." 

Paul  looked  up  sharply. 

"  You  must  leave  that  to  me,"  he  said. 

"  My  ver}^  dear  friend,  I  leave  every  thing  to  you." 

Paul  smiled. 

There  was  no  positive  proof  that  this  was  not  strictly 
true.  There  was  no  saying  that  Karl  Steinmetz  did 
not  leave  every  thing  to  every-body.  But  wise  people 
thought  differently. 

"  You  don't  know  Etta,"  he  said,  half  shyly.  "  She  is 
full  of  sympathy  and  pity  for  these  people." 

Steinmetz  bowed  gravely. 

"  I  have  no  doubt  of  it." 

"And  yet  you  say  tliat  she  must  not  be  told." 

"  Certainly  not.  A  secret  is  considerably  strained  if 
it  be  divided  between  two  people.  Stretching  it  to  three 
will  probably  break  it.  You  can  tell  her  when  you  are 
married.     Does  she  consent  to  live  in  Osterno  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes.     I  think  so." 

"  Um— m  !  " 

"What  did  you  say?" 

"  Um — m,"  repeated  Steinmetz,  and  the  conversation 
somewhat  naturally  showed  signs  of  collapse. 

At  this  moment  the  door  was  opened,  and  a  servant  in 
bright  livery,  with  powdered  wig,  silk  stockings,  and  a 
countenance  which  might  have  been  of  wood,  brought  in 
a  letter  on  a  silver  tray. 

Paul  took  the  square  envelope  and  turned  it  ovei-,  dis- 
playing as  he  did  so  a  coronet  in  black  and  gold  on  the 
corner,  like  a  stamp. 

Karl  Steinmetz  saw  the  coronet.  He  never  took  his 
quiet,  unobtrusive  glance  from  Paul's  face  while  he 
opened  the  letter  and  read  it. 

"A  fresh  difficult}^"  said  Paul,  throwing  the  note 
across  to  his  companion. 


CATRINA  99 

Steinmetz  looked  grave  while  he  unfolded  the  thick 
stationery. 

"Dear  Paul  [the  letter  ran]:  I  hear  you  are  at 
Osterno  and  that  the  Moscow  doctor  is  in  your  countr}^ 
We  are  in  great  distress  at  Thors — cholera,  I  fear.  The 
fame  of  5''0ur  doctor  lias  spread  to  my  people,  and  tliey 
are  clamoring  for  him.  Can  you  bring  or  send  him 
over  ?  You  know  your  room  here  is  always  in  readiness. 
Come  soon  with  the  great  doctor,  and  also  Ilerr  Stein- 
metz. In  doing  so  you  will  give  more  than  pleasure  to 
your  old  friend,  "  Catkina  Lanovitch. 

"  P.  S.  Mother  is  afraid  to  go  out  of  doors  for  fear 
of  infection.     She  thinks  she  has  a  little  cold." 

Steinmetz  folded  the  letter  very  carefully,  pressing 
the  seam  of  it  reflectively  with  his  stout  forefinger  and 
thumb. 

"  I  always  think  of  the  lie  first,"  he  said.  "It's  my 
nature  or  my  misfortune.  We  can  easily  write  and  say 
that  the  Moscow  doctor  has  left." 

He  paused,  scratching  his  brow  pensively  with  his 
curved  forefinger.  It  is  to  be  feared  that  he  was  seek- 
ing not  so  much  the  truth  as  the  most  convenient  per- 
version of  the  same. 

"But  then,"  he  went  on,  "by  doing  that  we  leave 
these  poor  devils  to  die  in  their — styes.  Catrina  can- 
not manage  them.     They  are  worse  than  our  people." 

"  Whatever  is  the  best  lie  to  tell,"  burst  in  Paul — "  as 
-we  seem  to  live  in  an  atmosphere  of  them — I  must  go  to 
Thors  ;  that  is  quite  certain." 

"There  is  no  must  in  the  case,"  put  in  Steinmetz 
quietly,  as  a  parenthesis.  "No  man  is  compelled  to 
throw  himself  in  the  way  of  infection.  But  I  know  you 
will  go,  whatever  I  s^3^" 

"I  suppose  I  shall,"  admitted  Paul. 


100  THE     SOWERS 

"And  C.^trina  will  iind  you  out  at  once." 

"Why?" 

Steinmetz  drew  in  his  feet.  He  leant  forward  and 
knocked  his  pipe  on  one  of  the  logs  that  la}^  ready  to 
liglit  in  the  great  open  fire-place. 

"  Because  she  loves  you,"  he  said  shortly.  "  There  is 
no  coming  the  Moscow  doctor  over  her,  mien  lieber." 

Paul  laughed  rather  awkwardly.  He  was  one  of  the 
few  men — daily  growing  fewer — who  hold  that  a 
woman's  love  is  not  a  thing  to  be  tossed  lightly  about 
in  conversation. 

"  Then — "  he  began,  speaking  rather  quickly,  as  if 
afraid  that  tsteinmetz  was  going  to  sa}^  more.  "  If," 
he  amended,  "  3^ou  think  she  will  find  out,  she  must  not 
see  me,  that  is  all." 

Steinmetz  reflected  again.  He  was  unusually  grave 
over  this  matter.  One  would  scarcely  have  taken  this 
stout  German  for  a  person  of  any  sentiment  whatever. 
Nevertheless  he  would  have  liked  Paul  to  marry  Catrina 
Lanovitch  in  preference  to  Etta  Sydney  Bamborough, 
merely  because  he  thought  that  the  former  loved  him, 
while  he  felt  sure  that  the  latter  did  not.  So  much  for 
the  sentimental  point  of  view — a  starting-point,  by  the 
way,  which  usually  makes  all  the  difference  in  a  man's 
life.  For  a  man  needs  to  be  loved  as  much  as  a  woman 
needs  it.  From  the  practical  point  of  view,  Karl  Stein- 
metz knew  too  much  about  Etta  to  place  entire  reliance 
on  the  goodness  of  her  motives.  He  keenly  suspected 
that  she  was  marrying  Paul  for  his  money — for  the 
position   he   could  give   her  in   the   world. 

"  We  must  be  careful,"  he  said.  "  We  must  j)lace 
clearly  before  ourselves  the  risks  that  we  are  running 
before  we  come  to  anj^  decision.  For  you  the  risk  is 
sinii)ly  that  of  unofiicial  banishment.  They  can  hardly 
send  you  to  Siberia  because  you  are  half  an  English- 
man; and  that  impertinent  country  has   a  habit  of  get- 


CATRINA  101 

ting  up  and  shouting  wlien  her  sons  are  interfered  willi. 
But  they  can  easily  make  Russia  impossible  for  you. 
They  can  do  you  more  harm  than  you  think.  They  can 
do  these  poor  devils  of  peasants  of  yours  more  harm 
than  we  can  comfortably  contemplate.  As  for  me,"  . 
he  paused  and  shrugged  his  great  shoulders,  "  it  means 
Sibe-ia.     Already  I  am  a  suspect — a  persona  non  grata." 

"  I  do  not  see  how  we  can  refuse  to  help  Catrina," 
said  Paul,  in  a  voice  which  Steinmetz  seemed  to  know, 
for  lie  suddenl}^  gave  in. 

"  As  you  will,"  he  said. 

He  sat  up,  and,  drawing  a  small  table  toward  him, 
took  up  a  pen  reflectively.  Paul  watched  him  in 
silence. 

When  the  letter  was  finifihed,  Steinmetz  read  it  aloud  : 

"  My  Dear  Catkixa  : 

"  The  Moscow  doctor  and  your  obedient  servant  will 
be  (D.  V.)  in  Thors  by  seven  o'clock  to-niglit.  We 
propose  spending  about  an  hour  in  the  village,  if  you 
Avill  kindly  advise  the  starosta  to  be  ready  for  us.  As 
our  time  is  limited,  and  we  are  much  needed  in 
Osterno,  we  shall  have  to  deprive  ourselves  of  the 
pleasure  of  calling  at  the  castle,  The  prince  sends 
kind  remembrances,  and  proposes  riding  over  to  Thors 
to  avail  himself  of  your  proffered  hospitality  in  a  day 
or  two.  With  salutations  to  the  countess, 
<*  Your  old  friend, 

"  Kakl  Steinmetz." 

Steinmetz  waited  with  the  letter  in  his  hand  for 
Paul's  approval.  "You  see,"  he  explained,  "you  are 
notoriously  indifferent  to  the  welfare  of  the  peasants. 
It  would  be  unnatural  if  you  suddenly  displayed  so 
much  interest  as  to  induce  you  to  go  to  Thors  on  a 
mission  of  charitv." 


I'iy^,    ;  THE     so  WEES 

Paul  nodded.  "  All  right,"  he  said.  "  Yes,  I  see  ; 
though  I  confess  I  sometimes  forget  what  the  deuce  I 
a?n  supposed  to  be." 

Steinmetz  laughed  pleasantly  as  he  folded  the  letter. 
He  rose  and  went  to  the  door. 

"  I  will  send  it  off,"  he  said.  He  paused  on  the 
threshold  and  looked  back  gravely.  "  Do  not  forget," 
he  added,  "  that  Catrina  Lanovitch  loves  you." 


CHAPTER  XII 

AT    THORS 

Below  the  windows  of  a  long,  low,  stone  house,  in 
its  architecture  remarkably  like  a  fortified  farm — below 
these  deep-embrasured  windows  the  river  Oster  mumbled 
softly.  One  of  the  windows  was  wide  open,  and  with 
the  voice  of  the  water  a  wonderful  music  rolled  out  to 
mingle  and  lose  itself  in  the  hum  of  the  pine-woods. 

The  room  was  a  small  one  ;  beneath  the  artistic  wall- 
paper one  detected  the  outline  of  square-hewn  stones. 
There  were  women's  things  lying  about  ;  there  were 
flowers  in  a  bowl  on  a  low,  strong  table.  There  were  a 
few  good  engravings  on  the  wall  ;  deep-curtained  win- 
dows, low  chairs,  a  sofa,  a  fan.  But  it  was  not  a 
womanly  room.  The  music  filling  it,  vibrating  back 
from  the  grim  stone  walls,  was  not  womanly  music.  It 
was  more  than  manly.  It  was  not  earthly,  but  almost 
divine.  It  happened  to  be  Grieg,  with  the  halting  beat 
of  a  disabled,  perhaps  a  broken,  heart  in  it,  as  that 
master's  music  usually  has. 

The  girl  was  alone  in  the  room.  The  presence  of 
any  one  would  have  silenced  something  that  was  throb- 
bing at  the  back  of  the  chords.  Quite  suddenly  she 
stopped.  She  knew  how  to  play  the  quaint  last  notes. 
She  knew  something  that  no  master  had  ever  taught  her. 

She  swung  round  on  the  stool  and  faced  the  light.  It 
was  afternoon — an  autumn  afternoon  in  Russia — and  the 
pink  light  made  the  very  best  of  a  face  which  was  not 
beautiful  at  all,  never  could  be  beautiful — a  face  about 
which  even  the  owner,  a  woman,  could  have  no  possible 


104  THE     SOWEES 

illusion.  It  was  broad  and  powerful,  with  eyes  too  far 
apart,  foreliead  too  broad  and  low,  jaw  too  heavy,  month 
too  determined.  Tlie  eyes  were  almond-shaped,  and 
slightly  sloping  downward  and  inward — deep,  passionate 
blue  eyes  set  in  a  Mongolian  head.  It  was  the  face  of  a 
woman  who  could,  morally  speaking,  make  mincemeat 
of  nine  young  men  out  of  ten.  But  she  could  not  have 
made  one  out  of  the  number  love  her.  For  it  has 
been  decreed  that  women  sliall  win  love— except  in  some 
happy  exceptions — by  beauty  only.  The  same  unwritten 
law  has  it  that  a  man's  appearance  does  not  matter — a 
law  much  appreciated  by  some  of  us,  and  duly  canonized 
by  not  a  few. 

The  girl  was  evidently  listening.  Slie  glanced  at  a 
little  golden  clock  on  the  mantel-piece,  and  then  at  the 
open  window.  She  rose — she  was  short,  and  somewhat 
broadly  built — and  went  to  the  window. 

"  He  will  be  back,"  she  said  to  herself,  "  in  a  few 
minutes  now." 

She  raised  her  hand  to  her  forehead,  and  pressed  back 
her  hair  witli  a  little  movement  of  impatience,  expres- 
sive, perhaps,  of  a  great  suspense.  She  stood  idly 
drumming  on  the  window-sill  for  a  few  moments  ;  then, 
with  a  quick  little  sigh,  she  went  back  to  the  piano. 
As  she  moved  she  gave  a  jerk  of  the  head  from  time  to 
time,  as  schoolgirls  who  have  too  much  hair  are  wont  to 
do.  The  reason  of  this  nervous  movement  was  a  won- 
drous plait  of  gold  reaching  far  below  her  waist. 
Catrina  Lanovitch  almost  worsliipped  her  own  hair. 
She  knew  without  any  doubt  that  not  one  woman  in  ten 
thousand  could  rival  her  in  this  feminine  glorj^ — knew 
it  as  indubitably  as  she  knew  that  she  was  plain.  The 
latter  fact  she  faced  with  an  unflinching,  cold  conviction 
which  was  not  feminine  at  all.  Slie  did  not  sa}"  that 
she  was  hideous,  for  tlie  sake  of  hearing  a  contradiction 
or  a  series  of  saving  clauses.     She  never  spoke  of  it  to 


AT    TIIOKS  105 

any  one.  She  had  grown  up  with  it,  and  as  it  was 
beyond  doubt,  so  was  it  outside  discussion.  All  her 
femininity  seemed  to  be  concentrated,  all  her  vanity 
centred,  on  her  hair.  It  was  her  one  pride,  perhaps  her 
one  hope.  Women  have  been  loved  for  their  voices. 
Catrina's  voice  was  musical  enough,  but  it  was  deep  and 
strong.  It  was  passionate,  tender  if  she  wished,  fasci- 
nating ;  but  it  was  not  lovable.  If  the  voice  may  win 
love,  why  not  the  hair  ? 

Catrina  despised  all  men  but  one — tliat  one  she  wor- 
shipped. She  lived  niglit  and  day  with  one  great  desire, 
beside  which  heaven  and  hell  were  mere  words.  Neither 
the  hope  of  the  one  nor  the  fear  of  the  other  in  any  way 
touclied  or  affected  her  desire.  She  wanted  to  make 
Paul  Alexis  love  her  ;  and,  womanlike,  she  clung  to 
the  one  womanly  charm  that  was  hers — the  wonderful 
golden  hair.  Pathetic,  aye,  pathetic — with  a  grin  be- 
hind tlie  pathos,  as  there  ever  is. 

She  sat  down  at  the  piano,  and  her  strong,  small 
hands  tore  the  heart  out  of  each  wire.  There  are  some 
people  who  get  farther  into  a  piano  than  others,  making 
the  wires  speak  as  with  a  voice.  Catrina  Lanovitch  had 
this  trick,  Slie  only  played  a  Russian  people-song — a 
simple  lay  such  as  one  may  hear  issuing  from  the  door 
of  any  kabak  on  a  summer  evening.  But  she  infused 
a  true  Russian  soul  into  it — the  soul  that  is  cursed  with 
a  fatal  power  of  dumb  and  patient  endurance.  She  did 
not  sway  from  side  to  side  as  do  some  people  who  lose 
themselves  in  the  intoxication  of  music.  But  she  sat 
quite  upright,  her  sturdy,  square  shoulders  motionless. 
Her  strange  eyes  were  fixed  with  the  stillness  of  distant 
contemplation. 

Suddenly  she  stopped  and  leaped  to  her  feet.  She  did 
not  go  to  the  window,  but  stood  listening  beside  the 
piano.  The  beat  of  a  horse's  hoofs  on  the  narrow  road 
was  distinctly  audible,  hollow  and  sodden  as  is  the  sound 


106  THE     SOAVEKS 

of  a  wooden  'road.  It  came  nearer  and  nearer,  and  a 
certain  unsteadiness  indicated  that  the  liorse  was  tired. 

"I  thought  lie  might  have  come,"  she  whispered,  and 
she  sat  down  breatlilessly. 

When  the  servant  came  into  the  room  a  few  minutes 
later  Catrina  was  at  the  piano. 

"A  letter,  mademoiselle,"  said  the  maid. 

"La}^  it  on  the  table,"  answered  Catrina,  without 
looking  round.  She  was  playing  the  closing  bars  of  a 
nocturne. 

She  rose  slowly,  turned,  and  seized  the  letter  as  a 
starving  man  seizes  food.  There  was  something  almost 
wolf-like  in  her  ej^es. 

"  Steinmetz,"  she  exclaimed,  reading  the  address. 
"  Steinmetz.     Oh  !  why  won't  he  write  to  me  ?" 

She  tore  open  the  letter,  read  it,  and  stood  holding  it 
in  her  hand,  looking  out  over  the  trackless  pine-woods 
with  absorbed,  speculative  eyes.  The  sun  had  just  set. 
The  farthest  ridge  of  pine-trees  stood  out  like  the  teeth 
of  a  saw  in  black  relief  on  the  rosy  sky.  Catrina  Lano- 
vitch  watched  the  rosiness  fade  into  pearly  gray. 

"  Madame  the  Countess  awaits  mademoiselle  for  tea," 
said  the  maid's  voice  suddenly,  in  the  gloom  of  the 
door- way. 

"  I  will  come." 

The  village  of  Thors — twenty  miles  farther  down  the 
river  Oster,  twenty  miles  nearer  to  the  junction  of  that 
river  with  the  Volga — was  little  more  than  a  hamlet  in 
the  days  of  which  we  write.  Some  day,  perhaps,  the 
three  hundred  souls  of  Thors  may  increase  and  multiply 
— some  day  when  Russia  is  attacked  hy  the  railway 
fever.  For  Tiiors  is  on  the  Chorno-Ziom—tho  belt  of 
black  and  fertile  soil  that  runs  right  across  the  vast 
empire. 

Karl  Steinmetz,  a  dogged  watcher  of  the  Wandering 
Jew — the   deathless   scoffer  at  our  Lord's   aiionv,  who 


AT    TIIOKS  107 

shall  never  die,  who  shall  leave  cliolera  in  his  track 
wherever  he  may  wander — Karl  Steinnietz  knew  that 
the  Oster  was  in  itself  a  Wandering  Jew.  This  river 
meandered  throngh  tlie  lonesome  country,  bearing 
cholera  germs  within  its  waters.  Whenever  Ostcrno 
had  cholera  it  sent  it  down  the  river  to  Thors,  and  so  on 
to  the  Volga. 

Thors  lay  groaning  under  the  scourge,  and  the  Countess 
Lanovitcli  shut  lierself  within  her  stone  walls,  shivering 
witli  fear,  begging  her  daughter  to  return  to  Petersburg. 

It  was  nearly  dark  wlien  Karl  Steinmetz  and  the  Mos- 
cow doctor  rode  into  the  little  village,  to  find  the  sta- 
rosta,  a  simple  Russian  farmer,  awaiting  them  outside 
the  kabak. 

Steinmetz  knew  the  man,  and  immediately  took  com- 
mand of  the  situation  with  that  unquestioned  sense  of 
authority  which  in  Russia  places  the  barin  on  much 
the  same  footing  as  that  taken  by  the  Anglo-Indian  in 
our  eastern  empire. 

"Now,  starosta,"  he  said,  "we  have  only  an  hour  to 
spend  in  Thors.  This  is  the  Moscow  doctor.  If  you 
listen  to  what  he  tells  you,  you  will  soon  have  no  sick- 
ness in  the  village.  The  worst  houses  first — and  quickly. 
You  need  not  be  afraid,  but  if  you  do  not  care  to  come 
in,  you  may  stay  outside." 

As  they  walked  down  the  straggling  village-street  the 
Moscow  doctor  told  the  starosta  in  no  measured  terms, 
as  was  his  wont,  wherein  lay  the  heart  of  the  sickness. 
Here,  as  in  Osterno,  dirt  and  neglect  were  at  tlie  base 
of  all  the  trouble.  Here,  as  in  the  larger  village,  the 
houses  were  more  like  the  abode  of  four-footed  beasts 
than  the  dwellings  of  human  beings. 

The  starosta  prudently  remained  outside  the  first  house 
to  which  he  introduced  the  visitors.  Paul  went  fear- 
lessly in,  while  Steinmetz  stood  in  the  door- way,  holding 
open  the  door. 


108  THE     SOWERS 

As  he  was  standing  tliere  he  perceived  a  flickering 
light  approaching  liini.  The  light  was  evidently  that  of 
an  ordinarj^  hand-lantern,  and  from  the  swinging  motion 
it  was  easy  to  divine  that  it  was  being  carried  by  some 
one  wlio  was  walking  quicklj^. 

"  Who  is  this  ?  "  asked  Steinmetz. 

"It  is  likely  to  be  the  Countess  Catrina,  Excellency." 

Steinmetz  glanced  back  into  the  cottage,  which  was 
dark  save  for  the  light  of  a  single  petroleum  lamp, 
Paul's  huge  form  could  be  dimly  distinguished  bending 
over  a  heap  of  humanity  and  foul  clothing  in  a  corner. 

"Does  she  visit  the  cottages?"  asked  Steinmetz 
sharply. 

"  She  does,  God  be  witli  her  !  She  has  no  fear.  She 
is  an  angel.     Witliout  her  Ave  should  all  be  dead." 

"  She  won't  visit  this,  if  I  can  help  it,"  muttered 
Steinmetz. 

The  light  flickered  along  the  road  toward  them.  In 
the  course  of  a  few  minutes  it  fell  on  the  stricken  cot- 
tage, on  the  starosta  standing  in  the  road,  on  Steinmetz 
in  the  door-way. 

"  Herr  Steinmetz,  is  that  you?"  asked  a  voice,  deep 
and  musical,  in  the  darkness. 

"  Zum  Befehl,"  answered  Steinmetz,  without  moving. 

Catrina  came  up  to  him.  She  was  clad  in  a  long 
dark  cloak,  a  dark  hat,  and  wore  no  gloves.  She  brought 
with  her  a  clean  aromatic  odor  of  disinfectants.  She 
carried  the  lantern  herself,  while  behind  her  walked  a 
man-servant  in  livery,  witli  a  large  basket  in  either  hand. 

"It  is  good  of  yon,"  she  said,  "to  come  to  us  in  our 
need — also  to  persuade  the  good  doctor  to  come  with 
you." 

"It  is  not  much  that  we  can  do,"  answered  Steinmetz, 
taking  the  small  outstretched  hand  witli  in  his  large  soft 
grasp  ;   "  but  that  little  j^ou  may  alwaj^s  count  upon." 

"  I  know,"  she  said  gravel}^ 


AT    TIIORS  109 

She  looked  up  at  him,  expecting  him  to  step  aside  and 
allow  her  to  pass  into  tlie  cottage  ;  but  Steinmctz 
stood  quite  still,  looking  down  at  her  with  liis  pleasant 
smile. 

"And  how  is  it  with  you?"  he  asked,  speaking  in 
German,  as  they  always  did  together. 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"Oh!"  she  answered  indifferently,  "I  am  Avell,  of 
course.  I  always  am.  I  have  the  strength  of  a  horse. 
Of  course  I  have  been  troubled  about  these  poor  people. 
It  has  been  terrible.  They  are  worse  than  children. 
I  cannot  quite  understand  why  God  afflicts  them  so. 
They  have  never  done  any  harm.  They  are  not  like 
the  Jews.  It  seems  unjust.  I  have  been  very  busy, 
in  my  small  way.  My  mother,  you  know,  does  not  take 
much  interest  in  things  that  are  not  clean." 

"  Madame  the  Countess  reads  French  novels  and  the 
fictional  productions  of  some  modern  English  ladies," 
suggested  Steinmetz  quietly. 

"  Yes  ;  but  she  objects  to  honest  dirt,"  said  Catrina 
coldly.     "May  I  go  in?" 

Steinmetz  did  not  move. 

"  I  think  not.  This  Moscow  man  is  eccentric.  lie 
likes  to  do  good  sub  rosa.     He  prefers  to  be  alone." 

Catrina  tried  to  look  into  the  cottage ;  but  Karl 
Steinmetz,  as  we  know,  was  fat,  and  filled  up  the  whole 
door-way. 

"  I  should  like  to  thank  him  for  coming  to  us,  or,  at 
least,  to  offer  him  hospitality.  I  suppose  one  cannot 
pay  him." 

"No  ;  one  cannot  pay  him,"  answered  Steinmetz 
gravely. 

There  was  a  little  pause.  From  the  interior  of  the 
cottage  came  the  murmured  gratitude  of  the  peasants, 
broken  at  times  by  a  wail  of  agony — the  wail  of  a  man. 
it  is  not  a  pleasant  sound  to  hear.     Catrina  heard  it, 


110  THE     SOWERS 

and  it  twisted  her  plain,  strong  face  in  a  sudden  spasm 
of  sympathy. 

Again  she  made  an  impatient  little  movement. 

"  Let  me  go  in,"  she  urged.  "  I  may  be  able  to 
help." 

Steinmetz  shook  his  head. 

"Better  not!"  he  said.  "Besides,  your  life  is  too 
precious  to  these  poor  people  to  run  unnecessary  risks." 

She  gave  a  strange,  bitter  laugh. 

"  And  what  about  you  ?  "  she  said.     "  And  Paul  ?  " 

"  You  never  hear  of  Paul  going  into  any  of  the 
cottages,"  snapped  Steinmetz  sharply.  "  For  me  it  is 
different.     You  have  never  heard  that  of  Paul." 

"No,"  she  answered  slowly;  "and  it  is  quite  right. 
His  life — it  is  different  for  him.     How — how  is  Paul  ?" 

"  He  is  well,  thank  you." 

Steinmetz  glanced  down  at  her.  She  was  looking 
across  the  plains  beyond  the  boundless  pine  forests  that 
lay  between  Thors  and  the  Volga. 

"Quite  well,"  he  went  on,  kindly  enough.  "He 
hopes  to  ride  over  and  pay  his  respects  to  the  countess 
to-morrow  or  the  next  day." 

And  the  keen,  kind  eyes  saw  what  they  expected  in 
the  flickering  light  of  the  lamp. 

At  this  moment  Steinmetz  was  pushed  aside  from 
within,  and  a  hulking  young  man  staggered  out  into  the 
road,  propelled  from  behind  with  considerable  vigor. 
After  him  came  a  shower  of  clothes  and  bedding. 

"  Pah  !  "  exclaimed  Steinmetz,  spluttering.  "  llimmel ! 
What  filth  !     Be  careful,  Catrina  !  " 

But  Catrina  had  slipped  past  him.  In  an  instant  he 
had  caught  her  by  the  wrist. 

"  Come  back  !  "  he  cried.  "  You  must  not  go  in 
there  !  " 

She  was  just  over  the  threshold. 

"You   have   some   reason  for   keeping  me  out,"  sh'^ 


AT    TIIORS  111 

returned,  wriggling  in  liis  strong  grasp.  "I  will — I 
will  ! " 

With  a  twist  she  wrenched  herself  free  and  went 
into  the  dimly  lighted  room. 

Almost  immediately  she  o"ave  a  mocking  laugh, 

"Paul  !"  she  said. 


CHAPTER  XIll 

UNMASKED 

For  a  moment  there  was  silence  in  the  hovel,  broken 
only  by  the  wail  of  the  dying  man  in  the  corner.  Paul 
and  Catrina  faced  each  other — she  white  and  suddenly 
breathless,  he  half  frowning.  But  he  did  not  meet  her 
eyes. 

"  Paul,"  she  said  again,  with  a  lingering  touch  on  the 
name.  The  sound  of  lier  voice,  a  rough  sort  of  tender- 
ness in  her  angry  tone,  made  Steinmetz  smile  in  his  grim 
way,  as  a  man  may  smile  when  in  pain. 

"  Paul,  what  did  you  do  this  for  ?  Why  are  you 
here  ?     Oh,  why  are  you  in  this  wretched  place  ?  " 

"Because  you  sent  for  me,"  he  answered  quietly. 
"  Come,  let  us  go  out.  I  have  finished  here.  That  man 
will  die.  Tliere  is  nothing  more  to  be  done  for  him. 
You  must  not  stay  in  here." 

Slie  gave  a  short  laugh  as  she  followed  him.  He 
had  to  stoop  low  to  pass  through  the  door-way.  Then 
he  turned  and  held  out  his  hand,  for  fear  she  sliould 
trip  over  the  high  threshold.  She  nodded  her  thanks, 
but  refused  the  proffered  assistance. 

Steinmetz  lingered  behind  to  give  some  last  instruc- 
tions, leaving  Paul  and  Catrina  to  walk  on  down  the 
narrow  street  alone.  The  moon  was  just  rising — a  great 
yellow  moon  such  as  only  Russia  knows — the  land  of 
the  silver  niglit. 

"  IIow  long  have  you  been  doing  this?  "  asked  Catrina 
suddenly.  She  did  not  look  toward  him,  but  straight 
in  front  of  her. 


UNMASKED 


113 


"  For  some  years  now,"  lie  replied  simply. 
He  lingered.  He  was  waiting  for  Steinmetz,  who 
always  rose  to  such  emergencies,  who  understood  socrets 
and  how  to  secure  them  when  they  seemed  already  lost. 
He  did  not  quite  understand  what  was  to  be  done  with 
Cairina— how  she  was  to  be  silenced.  She  had  found 
him  out  with  such  startling  rapidity  that  he  felt  dis- 
posed to  admit  her  right  to  dictate  her  own  terms.  On 
a  straight  road  this  man  was  fearless  and  quick,  but  he 
had  no  taste  or  capacity  for  crooked  ways. 

Catrina  walked  on  in  silence.  She  was  not  looking  at 
the  matter  from  his  point  of  view  at  all. 

"  Of  course,"  she  said  at  length,  "  of  course,  Paul,  I 
admire  you  for  it  immensely.  It  is  just  like  you  to  go 
and  do  the  thing  quietly  and  say  nothing  about  it ;  but— 
oh,  you  must  go  away  from  here.  I— I— it  is  too  horrible 
to  think  of  your  running  such  risks.  Rather  let  them 
all  die  like  flies  than  that.  You  mustn't  do  it.  You 
mustn't." 

She  spoke  in  English  hurriedly,  with  a  little  break  in 
her  voice  which  he  did  not  understand. 

"  With  ordinary  precautions  the  risk  is  very  small,"  he 
said  practically. 

"  Yes.  But  do  you  take  ordinary  precautions  ?  Are 
you  sure  you  are  all  right  now  ?  " 

She  stopped.  They  were  quite  alone  in  the  one  silent 
street  of  the  stricken  village.  She  looked  up  into  his 
face.  Her  hands  were  running  over  the  breast  of  the 
tattered  coat  he  wore.  It  was  lamentably  obvious, 
even  to  him,  that  she  loved  him.  In  her  anxiety  she 
either  did  not  know  what  she  was  doing,  or  she  did  not 
care  whether  he  knew  or  not.  She  merely  gave  sway  to 
the  maternal  instinct  which  is  in  the  love  of  all  Nvomen. 
She  felt  his  hands  ;  she  reached  up  and  touched  his  face. 
"  Are  you  sure — are  you  sure  you  have  not  taken  it  ?  " 
she  whispered. 
8 


114  THE     SOWERS 

He  walked  on,  almost  roughly. 

*'  Oh,  yes  ;  quite,"  he  said. 

"  I  will  not  allow  3^ou  to  go  into  any  more  houses  in 
Thors.  I  cannot — I  will  not !  Oh,  Paul,  you  don't  know. 
If  you  do,  I  will  tell  them  all  who  you  are,  and — and 
the  Government  will  stop  you." 

"  What  would  be  the  good  of  that?"  said  Paul  awk- 
wardly. "  Your  father  cai^d  for  his  peasants,  and  was 
content  to  run  risks  for  them.  I  suppose  3'ou  care  about 
them,  too,  as  you  go  into  their  houses." 

"  Yes  ;  but " 

She  paused,  gave  a  strange  little  reckless  laugh,  and 
was  silent.  Heaven  forbid  that  we  should  say  that  she 
wanted  him  to  know  that  she  loved  him.  Chivalry  bids 
us  believe  that  women  guard  the  secret  of  their  love 
inviolate  from  the  world.  But  what  wasCatrina  to  do? 
Men  are  in  the  habit  of  forgetting  that  plain  women  are 
women  at  all.  Surely  some  of  them  may  be  excused 
for  reminding  us  at  times  that  they  also  are  capable  of 
loving — that  they  also  desire  to  be  loved.  Happy  is  the 
man  who  loves  and  is  loved  of  a  plain  woman  ;  for  she 
will  take  her  own  lack  of  beauty  into  consideration,  and 
give  him  more  tliQ-n  most  beautiful  women  have  it  in 
their  power  to  give. 

"  Of  course,"  Catrina  went  on,  with  a  sudden  anger 
which  surprised  herself,  ^'  I  cannot  stop  you  from  doing 
this  at  Osterno,  though  I  think  it  is  wicked  ;  but  I 
can  prevent  you  from  doing  it  here,  and  I  certainly 
shall  !  " 

Paul  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  As  you  like,"  he  said.  "  I  thought  you  cared  more 
about  the  peasants." 

"  I  do  not  care  a  jot  about  the  peasants,"  she  answered 
passionateh^,  "  as  com])ared It  is  you  I  am  think- 
ing about,  not  them.  1  think  you  are  seltish,  and  cruel 
to  your  friends." 


UNMASKED  115 

"  My  friends  li.ave  never  sliown  tliat  tliey  are  consuiiieJ 
witli  anxiety  on  my  account." 

"  Tiiat  is  mere  prevarication.  Leave  that  to  Ilerr 
Steinmetz  and  such  men,  whose  business  it  is  ;  you  don't 
do  it  well.  Your  friends  may  feel  a  lot  that  they  do  not 
show." 

She  si)oke  the  words  shortly  and  sliarply,  Sun-epti- 
tious  good  is  so  rare,  that  when  it  is  found  out  it  very 
naturally  gets  mixed  up  with  secret  evil,  and  the  perpe- 
trator of  the  hidden  good  deed  feels  guilty  of  a  crime. 
Paul  was  in  tliis  lamentable  position,  wiiich  he  proceeded 
to  further  aggravate  by  seeking  to  excuse  himself. 

"  I  did  it  after  mature  consideration.  I  tried  paying 
another  man,  but  he  shirked  his  work  and  showed  the 
white  feather  ;  so  Steinmetz  and  I  concluded  that  there 
was  nothing  to  be  done  but  do  our  dirty  work  ourselves." 

"  Which,  being  translated,  means  that  you  do  it." 

"  Pardon  me.     Steinmetz  does  his  share." 

Catrina  Lanovitch  was  essentially  a  woman,  despite 
her  somewhat  masculine  frame.  She  settled  Karl  Stein- 
metz's  account  with  a  sniff  of  contempt. 

"And  that  is  Avh}'  you  have  been  so  fond  of  Osterno 
the  last  two  years  ?  "  she  asked  innocently. 

"  Yes,"  he  answered,  fallijig  into  the  trap. 

Catrina  winced.  One  does  not  wince  the  less  because 
the  pain  is  expected.  The  girl  had  the  Slav  instinct  of 
self-martyrdom,  which  makes  Russians  so  very  different 
from  the  pleasure-loving  nations  of  Europe. 

"  Only  that  ?"  she  enquired. 

Paul  glanced  down  at  her. 

"  Yes,"  he  answered  quietly. 

They  walked  on  in  silence  for  a  few  moments.  Paul 
seemed  tacitly  to  have  given  up  the  idea  of  visiting  an}?- 
more  of  the  stricken  cottages.  They  were  going  toward 
the  long  old  house,  which  was  called  the  castle  more  by 
courtesy  than  b}'^  rii^ht. 


116  THE     SOWERS 

*'  ITow  long  are  yon  going  to  stay  in  Osterno  ?"  asked 
Catrina  at  length. 

"  About  a  fortnigiit ;  I  cannot  stay  longer.  I  am 
going  to  be  married." 

Catrina  stopped  dead.  She  stood  for  a  moment  look- 
ing at  the  ground  with  a  sort  of  wonder  in  her  eyes, 
not  pleasant  to  see.  It  was  the  look  of  one  who,  having 
fallen  from  a  great  height,  is  not  quite  sure  whether  it 
means  death  or  not.     Then  she  walked  on. 

''  I  congratulate  you,"  she  said.  "  I  only  hope  she 
will  make  you  happj^     She  is — beautiful,  I  suppose?" 

"  Yes,"  answered  Paul  simpl3^ 

Tiie  girl  nodded  her  head. 

"What  is  her  name?" 

"  Etta  Sydney  Bamborough." 

Catrina  had  evidently  never  heard  the  name  before. 
It  conveyed  nothing  to  her.  Womanlike,  she  went  back 
to  her  first  question. 

"  What  is  she  like  ?  " 

Paul  hesitated. 

"Tall,  I  suppose?"  suggested  the  stunted  woman  at 
bis  side. 

"  Yes." 

"  And  graceful  ?  " 

u  Yes." 

"  Has  she— pretty  hair  ?  "  asked  Catrina. 

"I  think  so — yes." 

"You  are  not  observant,"  said  the  girl  in  a  singularly 
even  and  emotionless  voice.    "Perhaps  you  never  noticed," 

"Not  particularly,"  answered  Paul. 

The  girl  raised  her  face.  There  was  a  painful  smile 
twisting  her  lips.  The  moonlight  fell  upon  her  ;  the 
deep  shadows  beneath  the  eyes  made  her  face  wear  a 
grin.  Some  have  seen  such  a  grin  on  the  face  of  a 
drowning  man — a  sight  not  to  be  forgotten. 

"Where  does   she   live?"    asked  Catrina.     She    was 


UNMASKED  117 

unaware  of  the  thought  of  mnrtler  that  was  in  her  own 
heart.  Nevertlieless,  tlie  desire — indefinite,  sliapeless — 
was  tliere  to  l^ill  tliis  woman,  who  was  tall  and  beautiful, 
whom  Paul  Alexis  loved. 

It  must  be  remembered  in  extenuation  that  Catrina 
Lanovitch  had  lived  nearly  all  her  life  in  the  province 
of  Tver.  She  was  not  modern  at  all.  Deprived  of  the 
advantages  of  our  enlightened  society  press,  without  the 
benefit  of  our  decadent  fictional  literature,  she  liad 
lamentably  narrow  views  of  life.  She  was  without  that 
deep  philosophy  which  teaches  you,  mademoiselle,  wIjo 
read  this  guileless  tale,  that  nothing  matters  very  much  ; 
that  love  is  but  a  passing  amusement,  tiie  plaything 
of  an  hour  ;  that  if  Tom  is  faithless,  Dick  is  equally 
amusing  ;  while  Ilariy's  taste  in  gloves  and  compli- 
ments is  worthy  of  some  consideration.  That  these 
things  be  true — that  at  all  events  the  modern  young 
lady  thinks  them  true — is  a  matter  of  no  doubt  what- 
ever. Has  not  the  modern  lady  novelist  told  us  so? 
And  is  not  the  modern  lady  novelist  notable  for  her  close 
observation  of  human  nature,  her  impartial  judgment  of 
human  motives,  her  sublime  truth  of  delineation  when 
she  sits  down  to  describe  the  thing  she  calls  a  man  ?  By 
a  close  study  of  the  i-efined  feminine  literature  of  the 
day  the  modern  young  lady  acquires  not  only  the  knowl- 
edge of  some  startling  social  delinquencies — retailed, 
not  as  if  they  were  quite  the  exception,  but  as  if  they 
were  quite  the  correct  thing — but  also  she  will  learn 
that  she  is  human.  She  will  realize  how  utterly  absurd 
it  is  to  attempt  to  be  any  thing  else.  If  persons  in  books, 
she  will  reflect,  are  not  high-minded  or  pure-minded,  or 
even  clean-minded,  it  is  useless  for  an  ordinary  person 
out  of  a  book  to  attempt  to  be  any  of  these. 

Tliis  is  the  lesson  of  some  new  writers,  and  Catrina 
Lanovitch  had,  fortunately  enough,  lacked  the  oppor- 
tunity of  learning  it. 


118  THE     SOWERS 

She  only  knew  tlint  slie  loved  Paul,  and  that  what  she 
wanted  was  Paul's  love  to  go  with  her  all  through  her 
life.  She  was  not  self-analj^tical,  nor  subtle,  nor  given 
to  thinking  about  her  own  thoughts.  Perhaps  she  was 
old-fasliioned  enough  to  be  romantic.  If  this  be  so,  we 
must  bear  with  her  romance,  remembering  tliat,  at  all 
events,  romance  serves  to  elevate,  while  realism  tends 
undoubtedly  toward  deterioration. 

Catriiia  hated  Etta  Sydney  Bamborough  with  a  simple 
half-barbaric  hatred  because  she  had  gained  the  love  of 
Paul  Alexis.  Etta  had  taken  away  from  her  the  oidy 
man  whom  Catrina  could  ever  love  all  through  her  life. 
Tiie  girl  was  simple  enough,  unsophisticated  enough, 
never  to  dream  of  compromise.  She  never  for  a  moment 
entertained  the  cheap,  consolatory  thought  that  in  time 
she  would  get  over  it ;  she  would  marry  somebody  else, 
and  make  that  compromise  which  is  responsible  for  more 
misery  in  this  world  than  ever  is  vice.  In  her  great 
solitude,  growing  to  womanhood  as  she  had  in  the  vast 
forest  of  Tver,  she  had  learned  nearly  all  that  she  knew 
from  the  best  teacher.  Nature  ;  and  she  held  the  strange, 
effete  theory  that  it  is  wicked  for  a  woman  to  marr}^  a 
man  she  does  not  love,  or  to  marr^^  at  all  for  any  reason 
except  love.  St.  Paul  and  a  few  others  held  like  theories, 
but  nous  avons  change  tout  cela. 

"  Where  does  she  live  ?"  asked  Catrina. 

"  In  London." 

They  walked  on  in  silence  for  a  few  moments.  They 
were  walking  slowly,  and  they  presently  heard  the  foot- 
steps of  Karl  Steinmetz  and  the  servant  close  behind 
them. 

"I  wonder,"  said  Catrina,  half  to  herself,  "whether 
she  loves  you  ?  " 

It  was  a  question,  but  not  one  that  a  man  can  answer. 
Paid  said  nothing,  but  walked  gravely  on  by  the  side 
of  this  woman,  who  knew  that  even  if  Etta  Sydney  Banr 


UNMASKED  119 

borough  should  try  she  could  never  love  him  as  she  her- 
self did. 

When  Karl  Steinmetz  joined  them  they  were  silent. 
"I  suppose,"  he  said  in  English,  "that  we  may  rely 
upon  the  discretion  of  the  Fraulein  Catrina?  " 

"  Yes,"  answered  the  girl ;  "  you  may,  so  far  as  Osterno 
is  concerned.  But  I  would  rather  that  you  did  not  visit 
our  people  here.     It  is  too  dangerous  in  several  ways." 

"  Ah  ! "  murmured  Steinmetz,  respectfully  acquiescent. 
He  was  looking  straight  in  front  of  him,  with  an  expres- 
sion of  countenance  which  was  almost  dense.  "  Then 
we  must  bow  to  your  decision,"  he  went  on,  turning 
toward  the  tall  man   striding  along  at  his  side. 

"  Yes,"  said  Paul  simply. 

Steinmetz  smiled  grimly  to  himself.  It  was  one  of 
liis  half-cynical  theories  that  women  hold  the  casting 
vote  in  all  earthly  matters,  and  when  an  illustration 
such  as  this  came  to  prove  the  correctness  of  his  deduc- 
tions, he  only  smiled.  He  was  not  by  nature  a  cynic — 
only  by  the  force  of  circumstances. 

"Will  you  come  to  the  castle?"  asked  the  girl  at 
length,  and  Steinmetz  by  a  gesture  deferred  the  decision 
to  Paul. 

"  I  think  not  to-night,  thanks,"  said  the  latter.  "  We 
will  take  you  as  far  as  the  gate." 

Catrina  made  no  comment.  When  the  tall  gate-way 
was  reached  she  stopped,  and  they  all  became  aware  of 
the  sound  of  horses'  feet  behind  them. 

"  What  is  this?  "  asked  Catrina. 

"Only  the  starosta  bringing  our  horses,"  replied 
Steinmetz.     "  He  has  discovered  nothing." 

Catrina  nodded  and  held  out  her  hand. 

"  Good-night,"  she  said,  rather  coldly.  "  Your  secret 
is  safe  with  me." 

"Set  a  thi(>f  to  catch  a  thief,"  reflected  Steinmetz. 
He  said  nothing,  however,  when  he  shook  hands. 


120  THE     SOWEES 

They  mounted  their  horses  and  rode  back  the  way 
the3^  had  come.  For  half  an  hour  no  one  spoke.  Then 
Paul  broke  the  silence.     He  only  said  one  word  : 

*^D n." 

"  Yes,"  returned  Steinmetz  quietly.  "  Charity  is  a 
dangerous  plaything." 


CHAPTER  XrV 

A   "WIRE-PULLER 

The  Palace  of  Industry — where,  with  a  fine  sense 
of  the  fitness  of  the  name,  the  Parisians  amuse  tliem- 
selves — was  in  a  blaze  of  electric  light  and  fasliion. 
The  occasion  was  the  Concours  Ilippique,  an  ultra-equine 
fete,  where  the  lovers  of  the  friend  of  man,  and  sucli 
persons  as  are  fitted  by  an  ungenerous  fate  witli  limbs 
suitable  to  horsey  clothes,  meet  and  bow.  In  France,  as 
in  a  neighboring  land  (less  sunny),  liorsiness  is  the  last 
refuge  of  the  diminutive.  It  is  your  small  man  who  is 
ever  the  horsiest  in  his  outward  appearance,  just  as  it 
is  your  very  plain  young  person  who  is  keenest  at  the 
Sunday-school  class. 

When  a  Frenchman  is  horsey  he  never  runs  the  risk 
of  being  mistaken  for  a  groom  or  a  jockey,  as  do  his 
turfy  compeers  in  England.  His  costume  is  so  exag- 
geratedly suggestive  of  the  stable  and  the  horse  as  to 
leave  no  doubt  whatever  that  he  is  an  amateur  of  the 
most  pronounced  type.  His  collar  is  so  wliite  and  stiff 
and  portentous  as  to  make  it  impossible  for  him  to 
tighten  up  his  own  girths.  His  breeciies  are  so  breecliy 
about  the  knees  as  to  render  an  ascent  to  the  saddle  a 
feat  which  it  is  not  prudent  to  attempt  without  assist- 
ance. His  gloves  are  so  large  and  seamy  as  to  make  it 
extremely  difiicult  to  grasp  the  bridle,  and  quite  impos- 
sible to  buckle  a  strap.  Your  French  horseman  is,  in  fact, 
rather  like  a  knight  of  old,  inasmuch  as  his  attendants 
are  required  to  set  him  on  his  horse  with  his  face  turned 
in  the  riglit  direction,  his   bridle  in  his   left   hand,  his 


122  THE     SOWERS 

whip  in  liis  right,  and,  it  is  to  be  supposed,  his  heart  in 
his  mouth.  Wlien  he  is  once  up  there,  however,  the 
gallant  son  of  Gaul  can  teach  even  some  of  us,  my  fox- 
hunting masters,  the  way  to  sit  a  horse  ! 

We  have,  however,  I'ttle  to  do  witli  such  matters  here, 
except  in  so  far  as  they  affect  the  persons  connected 
witli  this  record.  The  Concours  Hippique,  be  it  there- 
fore known,  was  at  its  height.  Great  deeds  of  horse- 
manship had  been  successfully  accomplished.  The  fair 
had  smiled  beneath  pencilled  eyebrow^s  upon  the  brave 
in  uniform  and  breeches.  At  the  time  when  we  join 
the  fashionable  throng,  the  fair  are  smiling  their 
brightest.     It  is,  in  fact,  an  interval  for  refreshment. 

A  crowd  of  well-dressed  men  jostled  each  other  good- 
naturedly  around  a  long  table,  where  insolent  waiters 
served  tepid  coffee,  and  sandwiches  that  had  been  cut 
by  the  hand  of  a  knave.  In  the  background  a  number 
oiF  ladies  nodded  encouragement  to  their  cavaliers  in  tlie 
intervals  of  scrutinizing  each  other's  dresses.  Many 
pencilled  eyebrows  were  raised  in  derision  of  too  little 
style  displayed  by  some  innocent  rival,  or  brought 
down  in  disapproval  of  too  much  of  the  same  vague 
quality  displayed  by  one  less  innocent. 

In  the  midst  of  these,  as  in  his  element,  moved  the 
Baron  Claude  de  Cliauxville,  smiling  his  courteous, 
ready  smile,  which  his  enemies  called  a  grin.  lie  took 
up  less  room  than  the  majority  of  the  men  around  him  ; 
he  succeeded  in  passing  through  narrower  places,  and 
jostled  few^er  people.  In  a  w^ord,  he  proved  to  his  own 
satisfaction,  and  to  the  discomfiture  of  many  a  younger 
man,  his  proficiency  in  the  gentle  art  of  getting  on  in 
the  world. 

Not  far  from  him  stood  a  stout  gentleman  of  middle 
age,  with  a  heavy  fair  mustache  brushed  upward  on 
either  side.  This  man  had  an  air  of  distinction  which 
was  notable  even  in  this  assembl}';   for  there  were  many 


A   WIRE-PULLER  123 

distinguished  people  present,  and  a  Frenchman  of  note 
plays  his  part  better  than  do  we  dull,  self-conscious 
islanders.  Tiiis  man  looked  like  a  general,  so  upright 
was  he,  so  keen  his  glance,  so  independent  the  carriage 
of  his  head. 

He  stood  with  his  hands  behind  his  back,  looking 
gravely  on  at  the  social  festivity.  He  bowed  and  raised 
his  hat  to  man}^,  but  he  entered  into  conversation  with 
none. 

"  Ce  Vassili,"  he  heard  more  than  once  wliispered, 
"  c'est  un  hoinme  dangereux." 

And  he  smiled  all  the  more  pleasantly. 

Now,  if  a  very  keen  observer  had  taken  the  trouble 
to  ignore  tlie  throng  and  watch  two  persons  only,  that 
observer  might  have  discovered  the  fact  that  Claude  de 
Chauxville  was  slowly  and  purposely  making  his  way 
toward  the  man  called  Vassili. 

De  Chauxville  knew  and  was  known  of  many.  He 
had  but  recently  arrived  from  London.  He  found  him- 
self called  upon  to  shake  hands  a  I'anglais  with  this 
one  and  that,  giving  all  and  sundry  his  impressions  of 
the  perfidious  Albion  with  a  verve  and  neatness  truly 
French.  He  went  from  one  to  the  other  with  perfect 
grace  and  savoir-faire,  and  each  change  of  position 
brought  him  nearer  to  the  middle-aged  man  with  up- 
turned mustache,  upon  whom  his  movements  were  by 
no  means  lost. 

Finally  De  Chauxville  bumped  against  the  object  of 
his  quest — possibly,  indeed,  the  object  of  his  presence 
at  the  Concours  Hippique.  He  turned  with  a  ready 
apology. 

"  Ah  !  "  he  exclaimed  ;  "  the  very  man  I  was  desiring 
to  see." 

The  individual  known  as  "  ce  Vassili " — a  term  of 
mingled  contempt  and  distrust — bowed  very  low.  He 
was  a  plain    commoner,    while    his   interlocutor   was  a 


124  THE     SOWERS 

baron.  The  knowledge  of  tliis  was  subtly  conveyed  in 
his  bow. 

"  How  can  I  serve  M.  le  Baron  ? "  he  enquired  in  a 
voice  which  was  naturally  loud  and  strong,  but  had 
been  reduced  by  careful  training  to  a  tone  inaudible  at 
the  distance  of  a  few  paces. 

"By  following  me  to  the  Caf e  Tantale  in  ten  minutes," 
answered  De  Chauxville,  passing  on  to  greet  a  lady 
who  was  bowing  to  him  with  the  labored  grace  of  a 
Parisienne. 

Vassili  merely  bowed  and  stood  upright  again.  Tliere 
was  something  in  his  attitude  of  quiet  attention,  of 
unobtrusive  scrutiny  and  retiring  intelligence,  vaguely 
suggestive  of  the  police — sometliing  which  his  friends 
refrained  from  mentioning  to  him  ;  for  this  Vassili  was 
a  dignified  man,  of  like  susceptibilities  with  ourselves, 
and  justly  proud  of  the  fact  that  he  belonged  to  the 
Corps  Diplomatique.  What  position  he  occupied  in 
that  select  corporation  he  never  vouchsafed  to  define. 
But  it  was  known  that  he  enjo3^ed  considerable  emolu- 
ments, while  he  was  never  called  upon  to  represent  his 
country  or  his  emperor  in  any  ofiicial  ca])acity.  He 
was  attached,  he  said,  to  the  Russian  Embass3^  ^^'^ 
enemies  called  him  a  spy  ;  but  the  world  never  puts  a 
charitable  construction  on  that  of  which  it  only  has  a 
partial  knowledge. 

In  ten  minutes  Claude  de  Chauxville  left  the  Concours 
Hippique.  In  the  Champs  Elysees  he  turned  to  the  left, 
up  toward  the  Bois  du  Boulogne  ;  turned  to  the  left 
again,  and  took  one  of  the  smaller  paths  that  lead  to 
one  or  other  of  the  sequestered  and  somewhat  select 
cafes  on  the  south  side  of  the  Champs  Elysees. 

At  the  Cafe  Tantale — not  in  the  garden,  for  it  Avas 
winter,  but  in  the  inner  room — he  found  the  man  called 
Vassili  consuming  a  ])ensive  and  solitary  glass  of  li(jueur. 

De  Chauxville  sat  down,  stated   his   requirements   to 


A    AVIRE-rULLEB  125 

the  waiter  in  a  single  word,  and  offered  liis  companion 
a  cigarette,  wliich  Vassili  accepted  with  the  conscious- 
ness that  it  came  from  a  coroneted  case. 

"  I  am  rather  thinking  of  visiting  Russia,"  said  the 
Frencliman. 

"  Again,"  added  Vassili,  in  his  quiet  voice. 
De  Chauxville  looked  up  sliarply,  smiled,  and  waved 
the  word  away  with  a  gesture  of  the  fingers  that  held  a 
cigarette. 

"  If  you  will — again." 

*'  On  private  affairs?"  enquired  Vassili,  not  so  much, 
it  would  appear,  from  curiosity  as  from  habit.  lie  put 
the  question  with  the  assurance  of  one  who  has  a  right 
to  know. 

De  Chauxville  nodded  acquiescence  through  the 
tobacco    smoke. 

"  The  bane  of  public  men— private  affairs,"  he  said 
epigrammatically. 

But  the  attaclie  to  the  Russian  Embassy  was  either 
loo  dense  or  too  clever  to  be  moved  to  a  sympathetic 
«mile  by  a  cheap  epigram. 

"  And  M.  le  Baron  wants  a  passport  ?  "  he  said,  laps- 
ing into  the  useful  tliird  person,  whicli  makes  the  French 
language  so  mucli  more  fitted  to  social  and  diplomatic 
purposes  than  is  our  rough  northern  tongue. 

"  And  more,"  answered  De  Cliauxville.  "  I  want  what 
you  liate  parting  with — information." 

Tlie  man  called  Vassili  leaned  back  in  his  chair  with 
a  little  smile.  It  was  an  odd  little  smile,  which  fell  over 
his  features  like  a  mask  and  completely  hid  his  thoughts. 
It  was  apparent  tliat  Claude  de  Cliauxville's  tricks  of 
speech  and  manner  fell  here  on  barren  ground.  The 
Frenchman's  epigrams,  his  method  of  conveying  his 
meaning  in  a  non-committing  and  impersonal  generality, 
failed  to  impress  this  liearer.  The  difference  between 
a   Frenchman    and    a    Russian    is    that   the    former   is 


126  THE     SOWERS 

amenable  to  every  outward  influence — the  outer  tiling 
penetrates.  The  Russian,  on  the  contrar}^,  is  a  man  who 
works  his  tlioughts,  as  it  were,  from  internal  generation 
to  external  action.  The  action,  moreover,  is  demonstra- 
tive, wliicli  makes  the  Russian  different  from  other 
northern  nations  of  an  older  civilization  and  a  completer 
self-control. 

*' Then,"  said  Vassili,  "  if  I  understand  M.  le  Baron 
aright,  it  is  a  question  of  private  and  personal  affairs 
tliat  suggests  this  journey  to — Russia  ?  " 

"  Precisely." 

*'  In  no  sense  a  mission  ?  "  suggested  the  other,  sipping 
his  liqueur  thoughtfidly. 

"  In  no  sense  a  mission.  I  give  you  a  proof.  I  have 
been  granted  six  months'  leave  of  absence,  as  you  prob- 
ably know." 

"  Precisely  so,  mo'  cher  Baron."  Vassili  had  a  habit 
of  applying  to  every  one  the  endearing  epithet,  which 
lost  a  consonant  somewhere  in  his  mustache.  "  When 
a  military  officer  is  granted  a  six  months'  leave,  it  is 
exactly  then  that  we  w^atch  him." 

De  Chauxville  shrugged  his  shoulders  in  depre- 
cation, possibly  with  contempt  for  any  system  of 
watching. 

"  May  one  call  it  an  affaire  de  cosur  ?  "  asked  Vassili, 
■with  his  grim  smile. 

"  Certainly.  Are  not  all  private  affairs  such,  one  way 
or  the  other  ?  " 

"  And  you  want  a  passport  ?  " 

"  Yes — a  special  one." 

"I  will  see  what  I  can  do." 

"  Thank  you." 

Vassili  emptied  his  glass,  drew  in  his  feet,  and  glanced 
at  the  clock. 

"  But  that  is  not  all  I  want,"  said  De  Chauxville. 

*'  So  I  perceive." 


A    WIllE-PULLKR  127 

"  I  want  you  to  toil  me  wliat  you  know  of  Prince 
Pavlo  Alexis." 

"Of  Tver?" 

"  Of  Tver.  What  you  know  from  your  point  of  view, 
you  understand,  ni}'-  dear  Vassili.  Notliing  political, 
nothing  incriminating,  notliing  official.  I  only  want 
a  few  social  details." 

Again  the  odd  smile  fell  over  the  dignilied  face. 

"In  case,"  said  Vassili,  rather  slowly,  "I  should  onl}^ 
impart  to  you  stale  news  and  valueless  details  with 
which  you  are  already  acquainted,  I  must  ask  you  to  tell 
me  first  what  you  know — from  your  point  of  view." 

"  Certainly,"  answered  De  Chauxville,  with  engaging 
frankness.  "  The  man  I  know  slightly  is  the  sort  of 
thing  that  Eton  and  Oxford  turn  out  by  the  dozen. 
Well  dressed,  athletic,  silent,  a  thorough  gentleman — et 
voila  tout." 

The  face  of  Vassili  expressed  something  remarkably 
like  disbelief. 

"  Ye — es,"  he  said  slowly. 

"And  you?"  suggested  De  Chauxville. 

"You  leave  too  much  to  my  imagination,"  said 
Vassili»  "  You  relate  mere  facts — have  you  no  sup- 
positions, no  questions  in  3^our  mind  about  the  man  ?" 

"I  want  to  know  what  his  purpose  in  life  may  be. 
There  is  a  purpose — one  sees  it  in  his  face.  I  want  also 
to  know  what  he  does  with  his  spare  time  ;  he  must  have 
much  to  dispose  of  in  England." 

Vassili  nodded,  and  suddenl}^  launched  into  detail. 

"  Prince  Pavlo  Alexis,"  he  said,  "  is  a  young  man  who 
takes  a  full  and  daring  advantage  of  his  jieculiar  posi- 
tion. He  defies  many  laws  in  a  quiet,  persistent  way 
which  impresses  the  smaller  authorities  and  to  a  certain 
extent  paralyzes  them.  .  Jle  was  in  the  Charit}^  League — 
deeply  implicated.  He  had  a  narrow  escape.  He  was 
pulled  through  by  the  cleverest  man  in  Russia." 


128  THE     SOWERS 

"Karl  Steinmetz?" 

"  Yes,"  answered  Vassili  behind  the  rigid  smile  ; 
"Karl  Steinmetz." 

"And  tliat,"  said  De  Chauxville,  watcliing  the  face 
of  his  companion,  "  is  all  you  can  tell  me  ?  " 

"To  be  quite  frank  with  you,"  replied  the  man  who 
had  never  been  quite  frank  in  his  life,  "  that  is  all  1 
want  to  tell  j^ou." 

De  Chauxville  lighted  a  cigarette,  with  exaggerated 
interest  in  the  match. 

"  Paul  is  a  friend  of  mine,"  he  said  calmly.  "  I  maj'' 
be  staying  at  Osterno  with  him." 

The  rigid  smile  never  relaxed. 

"  Not  with  Karl  Steinmetz  on  the  premises,"  said 
Vassili  imperturbabl}^ 

"  The  astute  Mr.  Steinmetz  may  be  removed  to  some 
other  sphere  of  usefulness.  There  is  a  new  sj^oke  in  his 
Teutonic  wheel." 

"  Ah  !  " 

"  Prince  Paul  is  about  to  marry — the  widow  of 
S3^dney  Bamborough." 

"  S3^dne3^  Bamborough,"  repeated  Vassili  musingl  v, 
with  a  perfect  expression  of  innocence  on  his  well-cut 
face.     "  I  have  heard  that  name  before." 

De  Chauxville  laughed  quietly,  as  if  in  appreciation 
of  a  pretty  trick  which  he  knew  as  well  as  its  performero 

"  She  is  a  friend  of  mine." 

The  attache,  as  he  was  pleased  to  call  himself,  to  the 
Russian  Embassy,  leant  his  arms  on  the  table,  bending 
forward  and  bringing  his  large,  fleshy  face  within  a  few 
inches  of  De  Chauxville's  keen  countenance. 

"That  makes  all  the  difference,"  he  said. 

"I  thought  it  would,"  answered  De  Chauxville,  meet- 
ing the  steady  gaze  firmly. 


CHAPTER  XV 

IN  A  AVINTER  CITY 

St.  Petersburg  under  snow  is  tlie  most  picturesque 
city  in  the  world.  The  town  is  at  its  best  when  a  high 
wind  lias  come  from  the  north  to  blow  all  the  snow  from 
the  cupola  of  St.  Isaac's,  leaving  that  golden  dome,  in 
all  its  brilliancy,  to  gleam  and  flash  over  the  whitened 
sepulchre  of  a  cit}^ 

In  winter  the  Neva  is  a  broad,  silent  thoroughfare  be- 
tween the  Vassili  Ostrow  and  the  Admiralty  Gardens. 
In  the  winter  the  pestilential  rattle  of  the  cobble-stones 
in  the  side  streets  is  at  last  silent,  and  the  merry  music 
of  sleigh-bells  takes  its  place.  In  the  winter  the  depres- 
sing damp  of  this  northern  Venice  is  crystallized  and 
liarmless. 

On  the  English  Quay  a  tall,  narrow  house  stands  look- 
ing glumly  across  the  river.  It  is  a  suspected  house, 
and  watched  ;  for  here  dwelt  Stepan  Lanovitch,  secre- 
tary and  organizer  of  the  Charity  League. 

Although  the  outward  appearance  of  the  house  is  un- 
inviting, the  interior  is  warm  and  dainty.  The  odor  of 
delicate  hot-house  plants  is  in  the  slightly  enervating 
atmospliere  of  the  apartments.  It  is  a  Russian  fancy  to 
fill  the  dwelling-rooms  with  delicate,  forced  foliage  and 
bloom.  In  no  country  of  the  world  are  flowers  so  wor- 
shipped, is  money  so  freely  spent  in  floral  decoration. 
There  is  something  in  the  sight,  and  more  especially  in 
the  scent  of  hot-house  plants,  that  appeals  to  the  com- 
plex siftings  of  three  races  which  constitute  a  modern 
Russian. 
9 


130  THE     SOWERS 

Wo,  in  tlie  modest  self-depreciation  which  is  a  national 
characteristic,  are  in  the  habit  of  thinking,  and  some- 
times saying,  that  we  have  all  the  good  points  of  the 
Angle  and  the  Saxon  rolled  satisfactoril}^  into  one 
Anglo-Saxon  whole.  We  are  of  the  opinion  that  mixed 
races  are  the  best,  and  we  leave  it  to  be  nnderstood  that 
ours  is  the  onl/  satisfactory  combination.  Most  of  us 
ignore  the  fact  that  there  are  others  at  all,  and  very  few 
indeed  recognize  the  fact  that  the  Russian  of  to-day  is 
essentially  a  modern  outcome  of  a  triple  racial  alliance 
of  which  the  best  component  is  the  Tartar. 

The  modern  Russian  is  an  interesting  stud}^  because 
he  has  the  remnant  of  barbaric  tastes,  with  ultra-civil- 
ized facilities  for  gratifying  the  same.  The  best  part  of 
him  conies  from  the  East,  the  worst  from  Paris. 

The  Countess  Lanovitch  belonged  to  the  school  exist- 
ing in  Petersburg  and  Moscow  in  the  early  years  of  the 
century — the  school  that  did  not  speak  Russian  but  onl}^ 
French,  that  chose  to  class  the  peasants  with  the  beasts 
of  the  field,  that  apparently  expected  the  deluge  to 
follow  soon. 

Her  drawing-room,  looking  out  on  to  the  Neva,  was 
characteristic  of  herself.  Camellias  held  the  floral 
honors  in  vase  and  pot.  The  French  novel  ruled 
supreme  on  the  side-table.  The  room  was  too  hot,  the 
chairs  were  too  soft,  the  moral  atmosphere  too  lax. 
One  could  tell  that  this  was  the  dwelling-room  of  a  lazy, 
self-indulgent,  and  probably  ignorant  woman. 

The  countess  herself  in  nowise  contradicted  this  con- 
clusion. She  was  seated  on  a  very  low  chair,  exposing 
a  slippered  foot  to  the  flame  of  a  wood  fire.  She 
held  a  magazine  in  her  hand,  and  yawned  as  she  turned 
its  })ages.  She  was  not  so  stout  in  person  as  her 
loose  and  somewhat  highly  colored  cheeks  would  imply. 
Her  eyes  were  dull  and  sleepy.  The  woman  was  an 
incarnate  yawn. 


IN    A    WINTER    CITY  131 

She  looked  up,  turning  lazil}^  in  licr  cliair,  to  note  the 
darkening  of  the  air  without  tlie  double  windows. 

"Ah!"  she  said  aloud  to  herself  in  Frencli,  *' when 
will  it  be  tea-time?" 

As  she  spoke  the  words,  the  bells  of  a  sleigh  suddenly 
stopped  with  a  rattle  beneath  the  window. 

Immediately  the  countess  rose  and  went  to  the  mirror 
over  the  mantel-piece.  She  arranged  without  enthu- 
siasm her  straggling  hair,  and  put  straight  a  lace  cap 
which  was  chronically  crooked.  She  looked  at  her 
reilection  pessimistically,  as  well  she  might.  It  was  the 
puffy  red  face  of  a  middle-aged  woman  given  to  petty 
self-indulgence. 

While  she  was  engaged  in  this  discouraging  pastime 
the  door  was  opened,  and  a  maid  came  in  with  the  air 
of  one  who  has  gained  a  trifling  advantage  by  the  simple 
method  of  peeping. 

"  It  is  M,  Steinmetz,  Mme.  la  Conitesse." 

"  Ah  !  Do  I  look  horrible,  Celestine  ?  I  have  been 
asleep." 

Celestine  was  French,  and  laughed  ^vith  all  the  charm 
of  that  tactful  nation. 

*' How  can  Mme.  la  Comtesse  ask  such  a  thing? 
Madame  might  be  thirty-five  !  " 

It  is  to  be  supposed  that  the  staff  of  angelic  recorders 
have  a  separate  set  of  ledgers  for  French  people,  with 
special  discounts  attaching  to  pleasant  lies. 

Madame  shook  her  head — and  believed. 

"M.  Steinmetz  is  even  now  taking  off  his  furs  in  the 
hall,"  said  Celestine,  retiring  toward  the  door. 

"  It  is  Avell.     We  shall  want  tea." 

Steinmetz  came  into  the  room  with  an  exaggerated 
bow  and  a  twinkle  in  his  melancholy  eyes. 

"  Figure  to  yourself,  my  dear  Steinmetz,"  said  the 
countess  vivaciously.  "  Catrina  has  gone  out — on  a 
day  like  this  !   Mon  Dieu  !  How  gray,  how  melancholy!  " 


132  THE    so  WEES 

"  Witliont,  5^es  !  But  here,  Low  clifFerent  !  "  replied 
Steinmetz  in  French. 

The  countess  cackled  and  pointed  to  a  cliair. 

"  Ah  !  you  always  flatter.  What  news  have  you, 
bad  character  ?  " 

Steinmetz  smiled  pensively^  not  so  mucli  suggesting 
the  desire  to  impart  as  the  intention  to  witliliold  tliat 
which  the  lady  called  news. 

"  I  came  for  yours,  countess.  You  are  always  amus- 
ing— as  well  as  beautiful,"  he  adtled,  with  liis  mouth 
■well  controlled  beneath  the  heavy  mustache. 

The  countess  shook  her  head  playfully,  which  had  tlie 
effect  of  tilting  lier  cap  to  one  side. 

"  I  !  01),  I  have  nothing  to  tell  you.  I  am  a  nun. 
What  can  ono  do — what  can  one  hear  in  Petersburg  ? 
Now  in  Paris  it  is  different.  But  Catrina  is  so  firm- 
Have  yoo  ever  noticed  that,  Steinmetz?  Catrina't^ 
firmness,  I  mean.  She  w^ills  a  thing,  and  her  Aviil  is  liko 
a  rock.  The  thing  has  to  be  done.  It  does  itself.  It 
comes  to  pass.  Some  people  are  so.  Now  I,  my  dear 
Steinmetz,  only  desire  peace  and  quiet.  So  I  give  in. 
I  gave  in  to  poor  Stepan.  And  now  he  is  exiled.  Per- 
haps if  I  had  been  firm — if  I  had  forbidden  all  this 
nonsense  about  charit}^ — it  would  have  been  different. 
And  Stepan  would  have  been  quietly  at  home  instead 
of  in  Tomsk,  is  it,  or  Tobolsk  ?  I  always  forget  which. 
Well,  Catrina  says  we  must  live  in  Petersburg  this 
winter,  and — nous  voilii !  " 

Steinmetz  shrugged  his  shoulders  with  a  commiserat- 
ing smile.  He  took  the  countess's  troubles  iiuliiferentl}^, 
as  do  the  rest  of  us  when  our  neighbor's  burden  does  not 
drag  upon  our  own  shoulders.  It  suited  him  that 
Catrina  should  be  in  Petersburg,  and  it  is  to  be  feared 
that  the  feelincrs  of  the  Countess  Lanovitch  had  no 
weight  as  against  the  convenience  of  Karl  Steinmetz. 

"Ah,  well!"   he   said,  "  you   must    console   yourself 


IN    A    WINTER    CITY  133 

with  the  thoiiglit  that  Petersburg  is  the  brigliter  for 
some  of  us.    WIio  is  tiiis — another  visitor  ?  " 

The  door  was  thrown  open,  and  CLaude  de  Chauxville 
walked  into  the  room  with  the  easy  grace  which  was  liis. 

"  Mme.  la  Comtesse,"  he  said,  bowing  over  her  hand. 

Tiien  he  stood  upright,  and  the  two  men  smiled  grimly 
at  each  other.  Steinmetz  had  thought  that  De  Chaux- 
ville was  in  London.  The  Frenchman  counted  on  the 
other's  duties  to  retain  him  in  Osterno. 

"  Pleasure  !  "  said  De  Chauxville,  shaking  hands. 

"  It  is  mine,"  answered  Steinmetz. 

The  countess  looked  from  one  to  the  other  with  a 
smile  on  her  foolish  face. 

"Ah  !  "  she  exclaimed  ;  "how  pleasant  it  is  to  meet 
old  friends  !     It  is  like  bj^-gone  times." 

At  this  moment  the  door  opened  again  and  Catrina 
came  in.     In  her  rich  furs  she  looked  almost  pretty. 

She  shook  hands  eagerly  witli  Steinmetz  ;  her  deep 
eyes  searched  his  face  with  a  singular,  breathless 
scrutiny. 

"  Where  are  you  from  ?"  she  asked  quickly. 

"  London." 

"  Catrina,"  broke  in  the  countess,  "  you  do  not  remem- 
ber M.  de  Chauxville  !  He  nursed  you  when  you  were 
a  child." 

Catrina  turned  and  bowed  to  De  Chauxville. 

"I  should  have  remembered  you,"  he  said,  "  if  we 
had  met  accidentally.  After  all,  childhood  is  but  a 
miniature — is  it  not  so  ?  " 

"  Perhaps,"  answered  Catrina  ;  "  and  when  the  minia- 
ture develops  it  loses  the  delicacy  which  was  its  chief 
charm." 

She  turned  again  to  Steinmetz,  as  if  desirous  of  con- 
tinuing her  conversation  with  him. 

"  M.  de  Chauxville,  you  surely  have  news  ?  "  broke 
in    the    countess's    cackling  voice.      "  I    have    begged 


134  THE     SOWERS 

M.  Steiimietz  in  vain.  He  says  he  lias  none  ;  but  is  one 
to  believe  so  notorious  a  bad  character  ?" 

"Madame,  it  is  wise  to  believe  only  that  which  is 
convenient.  But  Steinmetz,  I  promise  you,  is  the  soul 
of  honor.  Wliat  sort  of  news  do  you  crave  for  ?  Politi- 
cal, which  is  dangerous  ;  social,  which  is  scandalous  ;  or 
court  news,  whicli  is  invariably  false?" 

"  Let  us  have  scandal,  then." 

"  All !  I  must  refer  you  to  the  soul  of  honor." 

"  Who,"  answered  Steinmetz,  "  in  that  official  capacity 
is  necessarily  deaf,  and  in  a  private  capacity  is  naturally 
dull." 

He  was  looking  ver^^  hard  at  De  Chauxville,  as  if  he 
was  attempting  to  make  him  understand  something 
which  he  could  not  say  aloud.  De  Chauxville,  from 
carelessness  or  natural  perversit}^,  chose  to  ignore  the 
persistent  e3^es. 

"Surely  the  news  is  from  London,"  he  said  lightl}'; 
"  we  have  nothing  from  Paris." 

He  glanced  at  Steinmetz,  who  was  frowning. 

"  I  can  hardly  tell  you  stale  news  that  comes  from 
London  via  Paris,  can  I  ?  "  he  continued. 

Steinmetz  was  tapping  impatiently  on  the  floor  with 
liis  broad  boot. 

"  About  whom — about  whom  ?  "  cried  the  countess, 
clapping  her  soft  hands  together. 

"  Well,  about  Prince  Paul,"  said  De  Cliauxville,  look- 
ing at  Steinmetz  with  airy  defiance. 

Steinmetz  moved  a  little.  He  placed  himself  in  front 
of  Catrina,  who  had  suddenly  lost  color.  She  could  only 
see  his  broad  back.  The  others  in  the  room  could  not 
see  her  at  all.  She  was  rather  small,  and  Steinmetz  hid 
her  as  behind  a  screen. 

"  Ah  !  "  he  said  to  the  countess,  "  his  marriage  !  But 
Madame  the  Countess  assuredly  knows  of  that." 

"  How  could  she  ?"  put  in  De  CltMuxvilh'. 


IN    A    WINTER    CITY  135 

"The  countess  knew  tliat  Prince  Paul  was  going  to 
be  married,"  explained  Karl  Steinmetz  very  slowly,  as  if 
he  wished  to  give  some  one  time.  "  With  such  a  man  as 
he,  '  going  to  be '  is  not  veiy  far  from  being." 

"  Then  it  is  an  accomplished  fact  ?  "  said  the  countess 
sharply. 

"  Yesterday,"  answered  Steinmetz. 

"  And  you  were  not  there  !  "  exclaimed  Countess 
Lanovitch,  with  uplifted  hands. 

"  Since  I  was  here,"  answered  Steinmetz. 

The  countess  launched  into  a  disquisition  on  the 
heinousness  of  marrying  any  but  a  compatriot.  The 
tone  of  her  voice  was  sharp,  and  the  volume  of  her  words 
almost  amounted  to  invective.  As  Steinmetz  was  obvi- 
ously not  listening,  the  lady  imparted  her  views  to  the 
Baron  de  Chauxville. 

Steinmetz  waited  for  some  time,  then  he  turned  slowly 
toward  Catrina  without  actually  looking  at  her. 

"  It  is  dangerous,"  he  said,  "  to  stay  in  this  warm  room 
Avith  your  furs." 

"  Yes,"  she  answered,  rather  faintly  ;  "  I  will  go  and 
take  them  off." 

Steinmetz  held  the  door  open  for  her,  but  he  did  not 
look  at  her. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

THE    THIN    END 

"But  I  confess  I  cannot  understand  wliy  I  should  not 
be  called  the  Princess  Alexis — there  is  nothing  to  be 
ashamed  of  in  the  title.  I  presume  you  have  a  rigl)t  to 
it?" 

Etta  looked  up  from  her  occupation  of  fixing  a  brace- 
let, with  a  little  glance  of  enquiry  toward  her  husband. 

They  had  been  married  a  month.  Tlie  hone3'moon — 
a  short  one — had  been  passed  in  the  house  of  a  friend, 
indeed  a  relation  of  Etta's  own,  a  Scotch  peer  wlio  was 
not  above  lending  a  shooting-lodge  in  Scotland  on  the 
tacit  understanding  that  there  should  be  some  quid  pro 
quo  in  the  future. 

In  answer  Paul  merely  smiled,  affectionately  tolerant 
of  her  bright  sliarpness  of  manner.  Your  bright  woman 
in  society  is  apt  to  be  keen  at  home.  What  is  called 
vivacity  abroad  may  easily  degenerate  into  snappiness 
by  the  hearth. 

"I  think  it  is  ratlier  ridiculous  being  called  plain  Mi's. 
Howard-Alexis,"  added  Etta,  with  a  pout. 

They  were  going  to  a  ball — the  first  since  their 
marriage.  They  had  just  dined,  and  Paul  had  followed 
his  wife  into  the  drawing-room.  He  took  a  simple- 
minded  delight  in  her  beauty,  wliicli  was  of  the  descrip- 
tion that  is  at  its  best  in  a  gorgeous  setting.  He  stood 
looking  at  her,  noting  her  grace,  her  pretty,  studied 
movements.  There  were,  he  reflected,  few  women  more 
beautiful — none,  in  his  own  estimation,  fit  to  compare 
with  her. 


'  THE    THIN    END  137 

She  had  hitherto  been  sweetness  itself  to  him,  enliven- 
ing his  lonely  existence,  shining  suddenly  upon  his  self- 
contained  nature  witli  a  brilliancy  that  made  him  feel 
dull  and  tongue-tied. 

Already,  however,  ho  was  beginning  to  discover 
certain  small  differences,  not  so  much  of  opinion  as  ot 
thought,  between  Etta  and  himself.  She  attached  an 
importance  to  social  function,  to  social  opinion,  to  social 
duties,  which  he  in  no  wise  understood.  Invitations 
were  sliowered  upon  them.  A  man  who  is  a  prince  and 
prefers  to  drop  the  title  need  not  seek  popularity  in 
London.  Tiie  very  respectable  reader  probably  knows 
as  well  as  his  humble  servant,  the  writer,  that  in  Lon- 
don there  is  always  a  social  circle  just  a  little  lower 
than  one's  own  which  opens  its  doors  with  noble,  dis- 
interested hospitalit}^  and  is  prepared  to  lick  the  black- 
ing from  any  famous  foot. 

These  invitations  Etta  accepted  eagerly.  Some 
women  hold  it  little  short  of  a  crime  to  refuse  an  invita- 
tion, and  go  tlirougli  life  regretting  that  there  is  only 
one  evening  to  each  day.  To  Paul  these  calls  were 
nothing  new.  His  secretary  had  hitherto  drawn  a  hand- 
some salary  for  doing  little  more  than  refuse  such. 

It  was  in  Etta's  nature  to  be  somewhat  carried  away 
by  glitter.  A  great  ball-room,  brilliant  illumination, 
music,  flowers,  and  diamonds  had  an  effect  upon  her 
which  she  enjoj^'ed  in  anticipation.  Her  eyes  gleamed 
brightly  on  reading  the  mere  card  of  invitation.  Some 
dull  and  self-contained  men  are  only  to  be  roused  by 
the  clatter  and  whirl  of  a  battle-field,  and  this  stirs  them 
into  brilliancy,  changing  them  to  new  men.  Etta,  always 
brilliant,  always  bright,  exceeded  herself  on  her  battle- 
field— a  great  social  function. 

Since  their  marriage  she  had  never  been  so  beautiful, 
Iier  eyes  had  never  been  so  sparklinix,  her  color  so  brill- 
iant as  at  this  moment  when  she  aske<l  her  husband  to 


138  THE     SOWERS 

let  lier  use  her  title.  Hers  was  the  beauty  that  blooms 
not  for  one  man  alone,  but  for  the  multitude  ;  that 
feeds  not  on  the  love  of  one,  but  on  the  admiration  of 
many.  The  murmur  of  the  man  in  the  street  who 
turned  and  stared  into  her  carriage  was  more  than  the 
devotion  of  her  husband. 

"  A  foreign  title,"  answered  Paul,  *'  is  nothing  in  Eng- 
land. I  soon  found  that  out  at  Eton  and  at  Trinity. 
It  was  impossible  there.  I  dropped  it,  and  I  have  nevei- 
taken  it  up  again." 

"  Yes,  you  old  stupid,  and  you  have  never  taken  the 
place  you  are  entitled  to,  in  consequence." 

"  What  place  ?     May  I  button  that  ?  " 

^'Tlianks." 

She  held  out  her  arm  while  he,  with  fingers  much  too 
large  for  such  dainty  work,  buttoned  her  glove. 

"  The  place  in  society,"  she  answered. 

"  Oh  ;  does  that  matter?     I  never  thought  of  it." 

"  Of  course  it  matters,"  answered  the  lady,  with  an 
astonished  little  laugh.  (It  is  wonderful  what  an 
importance  we  attach  to  that  which  has  been  dearly 
won.)  ''  Of  course  it  matters,"  answered  Etta  ;  "  more 
than — well,  more  than  any  thing." 

"  But  the  position  that  depends  upon  a  foreign  title 
cannot  be  of  much  value,"  said  the  pupil  of  Karl  Stein- 
metz. 

Etta  shook  her  pretty  head  reflectivel}^ 

"  Of  course,"  she  answered,  "  money  makes  a  position 
of  its  own,  and  every-body  knows  that  you  are  a  prince  ; 
but  it  would  be  nicer,  with  the  servants  and  every-body, 
to  be  a  princess." 

"I  am  afraid  I  cannot  do  it,"  said  Paul. 

"  Then  there  is  some  reason  for  it,"  answered  his 
wife,  looking  at  him  sharply. 

"  Yes,  there  is." 

"Ah  !" 


THE   THIN    END 


139 


"The  reason  is  tlic  responsibility  tliat  attaclios  to  the 
very  title  you  wish  to  wear." 

Tlie  lady  smiled,  a  little  scornfully  perhaps. 

"  Oh  !     Your  grubby  old   peasants,   I  suppose,"  she 

said. 

"  Yes.  You  remember,  Etta,  what  I  told  you  before 
we  were  married— about  the  people,  I  mean  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes  !  "  answered  Etta,  glancing  at  the  clock  and 
hidino-  a  little  yawn  behind  her  fan. 

"I'^did  not  tell  you  all,"  went  on  Paul,  "  partly  be- 
cause it  was  inexpedient,  partly  because  I  feared  it 
might  bore  you.  I  only  told  you  that  I  was  vaguely 
interested  in  the  peasants,  and  thought  it  would  be  a 
good  thing  if  they  could  be  gradually  educated  into  a 
greater  self-respect,  a  greater  regard  for  cleanliness  and 
that  sort  of  thing." 

"Yes,  dear,  I  remember,"  answered  Etta,  listlessly 
contemplating  her  gloved  hands. 

"Well,  I  have  not  contented  myself  with  thinking 
this  during  the  last  two  or  three  years.  I  have  tried  to 
put  it  into  practice.  Steinraetz  and  I  have  lived  at 
Osterno  six  months  of  the  year  on  purpose  to  organize 
matters  on  the  estate.  I  was  deeply  implicated  in  the 
— Charity  League " 

Etta  dropped  her  fan  with  a  clatter  into  the  fender. 

"  Oh  !  I  hope  it  is  not  broken,"  she  gasped,  with 
a  singular  breathlessness. 

"I  do  not  thiidv  so,"  replied  Paul,  picking  up  the  fan 
and  returning  it  to  her.  "  Why,  you  look  quite  white  ! 
AVliat  does  it  tnatter  if  it  is  broken  ?     You  have  others." 

"Yes,  but "  Etta   paused,  opening   the   fan    and 

examining  the  sticks  so  closely  that  her  face  was  hidden 
by  the  feathers.  "Yes,  but  I  like  this  one.  What  is 
the  Charity  League,  dear?" 

"  It  was  a  large  organization  gotten  up  by  the  hered- 
itary nobles  of  Russia  to  educate  the  people  and  better 


140  THE     SO  WEES 

tlieir  circumstances  by  discriminate  chanty.  Of  course 
it  had  to  be  kept  secret,  as  the  bureaucracy  is  against 
any  attempt  to  civilize  the  people — against  education  or 
the  dissemination  of  news.  The  thing  was  organized. 
We  Avere  just  getting  to  work  when  some  one  stole 
the  papers  of  the  League  from  tlie  house  of  Count 
Stepan  Lauovitch  and  sold  them  to  the  Government. 
The  whole  thing  was  broken  up  ;  Lanovitch  and  others 
were  exiled,  I  bolted  home,  and  Steinmetz  faced  tlie 
storm  alone  in  Osterno.  He  was  too  clever  for  them, 
and  nothing  was  brought  home  to  us.  But  you  will 
understand  that  it  is  necessary  for  us  to  avoid  any 
notoriety,  to  live  as  quietl}^  and  privately  as  possible." 

"  Yes,  of  course  ;  but " 

"  But  what  ?  " 

"You  can  never  go  back  to  Russia,"  said  Etta  slowly, 
feeling  her  ground,  as  it  were. 

"Oh,  5^es,  I  can.  I  was  just  coming  to  that.  I  want 
to  go  back  this  winter.  There  is  so  much  to  be  done. 
And  I  want  you  to  come  with  me." 

"  No,  Paul.  No,  no  !  I  couldn't  do  that !  "  cried  Etta, 
with  a  ring  of  horror  in  her  voice,  strangely  out  of  keep- 
ing with  her  peaceful  and  luxurious  surroundings. 

"  Why  not?"  asked  the  man  who  had  never  known 
fear. 

"  Oh,  I  should  be  afraid.     I  couldn't.     I  hate  Russia !  " 

"  But  you  don't  know  it." 

"  No,"  answered  Etta,  turning  away  and  busying 
herself  with  her  long  silken  train.  "  No,  of  course  not. 
Only  Petersburg,  I  mean.  But  I  have  heard  what  it  is.- 
So  cold  and  dismal  and  miserable.  I  feel  the  cold  so 
horribly.  I  wanted  to  go  to  the  Riviera  this  winter. 
I  really  think,  Paul,  you  are  asking  me  too  much," 

"I  am  only  asking  a  proof  that  you  care  for  me." 

Etta  gave  a  little  laugh — a  nervous  laugh  witli  no 
mirtli  in  it. 


THE    THIN    END  141 

^^  A  proof  !  But  that  is  so  bourgeois  and  unnecessary. 
Haven't  you  proof  enough,  since  1  am  your  wife  ?  " 

Paul  looked  at  her  without  any  sign  of  yielding.  His 
attitude,  his  whole  being,  was  expressive  of  that  im- 
movability of  purpose  which  had  hitherto  been  con- 
cealed from  her  by  his  quiet  manner.  Steinmetz  knew 
of  the  mental  barrier  within  this  Anglo-Russian  soul, 
against  which  prayer  and  argument  were  alike  unavail- 
ing. The  German  had  run  against  it  once  or  twice 
in  the  course  of  their  joint  labors,  and  had  invariably 
given  way  at  once. 

Etta  looked  at  him.  The  color  was  coming  back  to 
lier  face  in  patches.  There  was  sometliing  unsteady  in 
her  eyes — something  suggesting  that  for  the  first  time 
in  her  life  she  was  daunted  by  a  man.  It  was  not  Paul's 
speech,  but  his  silence  that  alarmed  her.  She  felt  that 
trivial  arguments,  small  feminine  reasons,  were  without 
weight. 

"Now  that  you  are  married,"  she  said,  "I  do  not 
think  you  have  any  right  to  risk  your  life  and  your 
position  for  a  fad." 

"  I  have  done  it  with  impunity  for  the  last  two  or 
three  years,"  he  answered.  "  With  ordinary  precau- 
tions the  risk  is  small.  I  have  begun  the  thing  now  ;  I 
must  go  on  with  it." 

"  But  the  country  is  not  safe  for  us — for  you." 

"  Oh,  yes,  it  is,"  answered  Paul.  "As  safe  as  ever  it 
has  been." 

Etta  paused.  She  turned  round  and  looked  into  the 
fire.     He  could  not  see  her  face. 

"  Then  the  Ch — Charity  League  is  forgotten  ?  "  she 
said. 

"No,"  answered  her  husband  quietly.  "  It  will  not 
be  forgotten  until  we  have  found  out  who  sold  us  to  the 
Government." 

Etta's  lips  moved  in  a  singular  wa3^     She  drew  them 


142  THE     SOWERS 

in  and  held   them  with   her  teeth.     For  a  moment  her 
beautiful  face  wore  a  hunted  expression  of  fear. 

"  What  will  you  gain  by  that  ?  "  she  asked  evenlj^ 

"  I  ?  Oil.  nothing.  I  do  not  care  one  waj^  or  the 
other.  But  there  are  some  people  who  want  the  man — 
very  much." 

Etta  drew  in  a  long,  deep  breatli. 

"  I  will  go  to  Osterno  witli  you,  if  you  like,"  she  said. 
"Only — only  I  must  have  Maggie  with  me." 

"Yes,  if  you  like,"  answered  Paul,  in  some  surprise. 

The  clock  struck  ten,  and  Utta's  eyes  recovered  their 
brightness.  Womanlike,  she  lived  for  the  present. 
Tiie  responsibility  of  the  future  is  essentially  a  man's 
affair.  The  present  contained  a  ball,  and  it  was  onl}?-  in 
tlie  future  that  Osterno  and  Russia  had  to  be  faced. 
Let  us  also  give  Etta  Alexis  her  due.  She  was  almost 
fearless.  It  is  permissible  to  the  bravest  to  be  startled. 
She  was  now  quite  collected.  The  even,  delicate  color 
had  returned  to  her  face. 

"Maggie  is  such  a  splendid  companion,"  she  said 
lightly.  "She  is  so  easy  to  please.  I  think  she  would 
come  if  you  asked  lier,  Paul." 

"  If  you  want  her,  I  shall  ask  her,  of  course ;  but  it 
may  liinder  us  a  little.  I  thought  you  might  be  able  to 
help  us — with  the  women,  you  know." 

Tiiere  Avas  a  queer  little  smile  on  Etta's  face — a  smile, 
one  might  have  thought,  of  contempt. 

"  Yes,  of  course,"  she  said.  "  It  is  so  nice  to  be  able 
to  do  good  with  one's  money." 

Paul  looked  at  her  in  his  slow,  grave  way,  but  he 
said  nothing.  He  knew  that  liis  wife  w^as  cleverer  and 
brighter  than  himself.  lie  was  simple  enough  to  think 
tliat  this  superiority  of  intellect  might  be  devoted  to  the 
good  of  the  peasants  of  Osterno. 

"It  is  not  a  bad  place,"  lie  said — "  a  very  line  castle, 
one  of  the  finest  in  Europe.     Before  I  came  ;iwny  I  gave 


THE    THIN    END  143 

orders  for  your  rooms  to  be  done  up.  I  sliould  like 
every  thing  to  be  nice  for  you." 

"  I  know  you  would,  dear,"  slie  answered,  glancing 
at  the  clock.  (The  carriage  was  ordered  for  a  quarter- 
past  ten.)  "  But  I  suppose,"  she  went  on,  "  that,  socially 
speaking,  mc  shall  be  mther  isolated.  Our  neighbors 
are  few  and  far  between." 

"  The  nearest,"  said  Paul  quietl}^,  "  are  the  Lano- 
vitclies." 

"  Who  ?  " 

"  The  Lanovitches.     Do  you  know  them  ?  " 

"  Of  course  not,"  answered  Etta  sharply.  *'  But  I  seem 
to  know  the  name.  Were  there  any  in  St.  Peters- 
burg ?  " 

"Tlie  same  people,"  answered  Paul ;  "  Count  Stepan 
Lanovitch." 

Etta  was  looking  at  her  husband  with  her  bright 
smile.  It  was  a  little  too  bright,  perhaps.  Her  eyes 
had  a  gleam  in  tliem.  She  was  conscious  of  being 
beautifully  dressed,  conscious  of  her  own  matchless 
beauty,  almost  dauntless,  like  a  very  strong  man 
armed. 

"  Well,  I  tliink  I  am  a  model  wife,"  she  said  :  "  to  give 
in  meekly  to  your  tyranny  ;  to  go  and  bury  myself  in 

the  heart  of  Russia  in  the  middle  of  winter B}^ 

the  way,  we  must  buy  some  furs  ;  that  will  be  rather 
exciting.  But  you  must  not  expect  me  to  be  very  inti- 
mate witli  your  Russian  friends.  I  am  not  quite  sure 
tliat  I  like  Russians" — she  went  toward  him,  laying  lier 
two  hands  gently  on  his  broad  breast  and  looking  up  at 
him — "  not  quite  sure — especially  Russian  princes  who 
bully  their  wives.  You  may  kiss  me,  however,  but  be 
very  careful.  Now  I  must  g^o  and  finish  dressing.  We 
shall  be  late  as  it  is." 

She  gathered  together  her  fan  and  gloves,  for  she  had 
petulantly  dragged  off  a  pair  which  did  not  fit. 


144  THE     SOWEES 

"  And  you  will  ask  Maggie  to  come  with  us  ?  "  she 
said. 

He  held  open  the  door  for  her  to  pass  out,  gravely 
polite  ev^n  to  his  wife — this  old-fashioned  man. 

"  Yes,"  he  answered  ;  "  but  why  do  you  want  me  to 
ask  her?" 

"  Because  I  want  her  to  come." 


CHAPTER  XVII 

CHARITY 

In  these  democratic  days  a  very  democratic  theory 
has  exploded.  Not  so  very  long  ago  we  believed,  or 
made  semblance  of  belief,  that  it  is  useless  to  put  a 
high  price  upon  a  ticket  with  the  object  of  securing 
that  selectness  for  which  the  higli-born  crave.  "If 
they  want  to  come,"  Lady  Champignon  (wife  of  Alder- 
man Champignon)  would  say,  "  they  do  not  mind  pay- 
ing the  extra  half-guinea." 

But  Lady  Champignon  was  wrong.  It  is  not  that 
the  self-made  man  cannot  or  will  not  pay  two  guineas 
for  a  ball-ticket.  It  is  merely  that,  in  his  commercial 
wny,  he  thinks  that  he  will  not  have  his  money's  worth, 
and  therefore  prefers  keeping  his  two  guineas  to  spend 
on  something  more  tangible — say  food.  The  nouveau 
riche  never  quite  purges  his  mind  of  the  instinct  com- 
mercial, and  it  therefore  goes  against  the  grain  to  pay 
heavily  for  a  form  of  entertainment  which  his  soul  had 
not  the  opportunity  of  learning  to  love  in  its  youth. 
The  aristocrat,  on  the  other  hand,  has  usually  been 
brought  up  to  the  cultivation  of  enjoyment,  and  he 
therefore  spends  with  perfect  equanimity  more  on  his 
pleasure  than  the  bourgeois  mind  can  countenance. 

The  ball  to  which  Paul  and  Etta  were  going  was 
managed  by  some  titled  ladies  who  knew  their  business 
well.  The  price  of  the  tickets  was  fabulous.  The  lady 
])atronesses  of  the  great  Charity  Ball  were  tactful  and 
unabashed.  Tliey  drew  the  necessary  line  (never  more 
necessary  than  it  is  to-day)  witli  a  firm  hand. 
10 


146  THE     SOWEKS 

The  success  of  the  ball  was  therefore  a  foregone 
conclusion.  In  French  fiction  there  is  invariably  a 
murmur  of  applause  when  the  heroine  enters  a  room 
full  of  people,  which  fact  serves,  at  all  events,  to  show 
the  breeding  and  social  status  of  persons  with  whom 
French  novelists  are  in  the  habit  of  associating.  There 
was  therefore  no  applause  when  Paul  and  Etta  made 
their  appearance,  but  that  lady  had,  nevertheless, 
the  satisfaction  of  perceiving  glances,  not  only  of 
adiniration,  but  of  interest  and  even  of  disapproval, 
among  her  own  sex.  Her  dress  she  knew  to  be  perfect, 
and  when  she  perceived  the  craning  j^ale  face  of  the 
inevitable  lady-journalist,  peering  between  the  balusters 
of  a  galler}',  she  thoughtfully  took  up  a  prominent 
position  immediate!}^  beneath  that  gallery,  and  slowly 
turned  round  like  a  beautifully  garnished  joint  before 
the  fire  of  cheaj)  publicity. 

To  Paul  this  ball  was  much  like  others.  There  were  a 
number  of  the  friends  of  his  youth — tall,  clean-featured, 
clean-limbed  men,  with  a  tendency  toward  length  and 
spareness — who  greeted  him  almost  affectionately- 
Some  of  them  introduced  him  to  their  wives  and  sisters, 
which  ladies  duly  set  him  down  as  nice  but  dull — a  form 
of  faint  praise  which  failed  to  damn.  There  were  a 
number  of  ladies  to  whom  it  was  necessary  for  him  to 
bow  in  acknowledgment  of  past  favors  which  had  missed 
their  mark.  From  the  gallery  the  washed-out  female 
journalists  poked  out  their  eager  faces — for  they  were 
v/omen  still,  and  liked  to  look  upon  a  man  when  he 
was  strong. 

And  all  the  while  Karl  Steinmetz  was  storming  in 
his  guttural  English  at  the  door,  upbraiding  hired 
waiters  for  their  stupidity  in  accepting  two  literal  facts 
literally.  The  one  fact  was  that  they  were  forbidden 
to  admit  any  one  without  a  ticket ;  the  second  fact 
being  that  tickets  were  not  to  be  obtained  at   the  price 


CHARITY  147 

of  eitlicT  OHO  or  the  other  of  the  two  great  moliven  of 
.11.1.1 — IjOvo  or  Money. 

Steinmetz  was  Teutonic  and  imposing,  witli  the 
ribbon  of  a  great  Order  on  liis  breast.  He  mentioned 
the  names  of  several  Ladies  wlio  miglit  have  been,  but 
were  not,  of  the  committee.  Finally,  however,  he 
mentioned  the  historic  name  of  one  whose  husband  had 
braved  more  than  one  Russian  emperor  successfully  for 
England. 

"Yes,  me  lord,  her  ladyship's  here,"  answered  the 
man. 

Steinmetz  wrote  on  a  card,  "  In  memory  of  '50,  let  me 
in,"  and  sent  in  the  missive. 

A  few  minutes  later  a  stout,  smiling  lady  came  toward 
liim  with  outstretched  hand. 

"  What  mischief  are  you  about  ?  "  she  enquired,  "  you 
stormy  petrel  !  This  is  no  place  for  your  deep-laid 
ihachinations.  We  are  here  to  enjoy  ourselves  and 
fou!id  a  hospital.  Come  in,  however.  I  am  delighted 
to  see  3^ou.  You  used  to  be  a  famous  dancer — well, 
some  little  time  ago." 

*'  Yes,  my  dear  countess,  let  us  say  some  little  time 
ago.  Ach,  those  were  days  !  those  were  days  !  You  do 
not  mind  tiie  liberty  I  have  taken  ?" 

"I  am  glad  you  took  it.  But  your  card  gave  me 
a  little  tug  at  the  heart.  It  brought  back  so  much. 
And  still  plain  Karl  Steinmetz— after  all.  We  used  to 
think  much  of  you  in  the  old  days.  Who  would  have 
thought  that  all  the  honors  would  have  slipped  past 
you?" 

Steinmetz  shrugged  his  shoulders  with  a  heart-whole 
laugh. 

"  Ah,  what  matter  ?  Who  cares,  so  long  as  my  old 
friends  remember  me  ?  Who  would  have  thought,  mj' 
dear  madam,  that  the  map  of  Europe  would  have  been 
painted  the  colors  it  is  to-day?     It  was  a  kaleidoscope — 


148  THE     SOWERS 

the  clatter  of  many  stools,  aiu'l  I  fell  down  between  tliem 
all.  Still  plain  Karl  Steinmetz — still  very  niucli  at  your 
service.  Shall  I  send  my  check  for  five  guineas  to 
you  ?  " 

*'  Yes,  do  ;  I  ain  secretary'.  Always  businesslike  ; 
a  wonderful  man  you  are  still." 

"  And  you,  my  dear  countess,  a  wonderful  lady. 
Always  gay,  alwa3^s  courageous.  I  have  heard  and 
s^^mpathized.  I  have  heard  of  many  blows  and  wounds 
that  you  have  received  in  the  battle  we  began — well, 
some  little  time  ago." 

"  Ah,  don't  mention  them  !  They  hurt  none  the  less 
because  we  cover  them  with  a  smile,  eh  ?  I  dare  say 
you  know.  You  have  been  in  the  thick  of  the  fight 
yourself.  But  you  did  not  come  here  to  chat  with  me, 
though  your  manner  might  lead  one  to  think  so.  I  will 
not  keep  you." 

"  I  came  to  see  Prince  Pavlo,"  answered  Steinmetz. 
"  I  must  thank  you  for  enabling  me  to  do  so.  I  may  not 
see  you  again  this  evening.  My  best  thanks,  my  very 
dear  lady." 

He  bowed,  and  with  his  half-humorous,  half-melan- 
choly smile,  left  her. 

The  first  face  he  recognized  was  a  pretty  one.  Miss 
Maggie  Delafield  was  just  turning  away  from  a  partner 
who  was  taking  his  conge,  when  she  looked  across  the 
room  and  saw  Steinmetz.  He  had  only  met  her  once, 
barely  exchanging  six  words  with  her,  and  her  frank, 
friendly  bow  was  rather  a  surprise  to  him.  She  came 
toward  him,  holding  out  her  hand  with  an  open  friendli- 
ness which  this  young  lady  was  in  the  habit  of  bestow- 
ing upon  men  and  women  impartially — upon  persons  of 
either  sex  who  happened  to  meet  with  her  approval. 
She  did  not  know  what  made  her  incline  to  like  this  man, 
neither  did  she  seek  to  know.  In  a  quiet,  British  way 
Miss  Delafield  was  a  creature  of  impulse.     Her  likes  and 


CHARITY  149 

dislikes  were  a  matter  of  in«tinct,  and,  much  as  one 
respects  the  doctrine  ol"  cliarity,  it  is  a  question  whether 
an  instinctive  dislike  should  be  quashed  by  an  exag- 
gerated sense  of  neighborly  dut}'.  Steinmetz  she  liked, 
and  there  was  an  end  to  it. 

"  I  was  afraid  you  did  not  recognize  me,"  she  said. 

"  My  life  has  not  so  nian3^  pleasures  that  I  can  afford 
to  forget  one  of  tliem,"  replied  Steinmetz,  in  his  some- 
what old-fashioned  courtesy.  "  But  an  old — buffer, 
shall  I  say  ? — hardly  expects  to  be  taken  much  notice  of 
by  young  ladies  at  a  ball." 

"  It  is  not  ten  minutes  since  Paul  assured  me  that 
you  were  the  best  dancer  that  Vienna  ever  produced," 
said  the  girl,  looking  at  him  with  bright,  honest 
eyes- 

Karl  Steinmetz  looked  down  at  her,  for  he  was  a  tall 
man  when  Paul  Alexis  was  not  near.  His  quiet  gray 
eyes  were  almost  affectionate.  There  was  a  sudden 
sympathy  between  these  two,  and  sudden  sympathies 
are  the  best. 

"  Will  you  give  an  old  man  a  trial  ? "  he  asked. 
"  They  will  laugh  at  you." 

She  handed  hiin  her  programme. 

"  Let  them  laugh  !  "  she  said. 

He  took  the  next  dance,  which  happened  to  be  vacant 
on  her  card.  Almost  immediately  the  music  began,  and 
they  glided  off  together.  Maggie  began  Avitli  the  feel- 
ing that  she  was  dancing  with  her  own  father,  but  this 
wore  off  before  fliey  had  made  much  progress  thi'ough 
the  crowd,  and  gave  way  to  the  sensation  that  she  had 
for  partner  the  best  dancer  she  had  ever  met,  gray- 
haired,  stout,  and  middle-aged. 

"  I  wanted  to  speak  to  you,"  she  said. 

"  Ah  !  "  Steinmetz  answered.  He  was  steering  with 
infinite  skill.  In  that  room  full  of  dancers  no  one 
touched  Maggie's  elbow  or  the  swing  of  her  dress,  and 


150  THE     SOWEKS 

she,  wlio  knew  Avli.it  siu;li  tilings  meant,  smiled  as  she 
noted  it. 

"  I  have  been  asked  to  go  and  stay  at  Osterno,"  she 
said.     "  Shall  I  go  ?  " 

"  By  whom  ?  " 

"  By  Paul." 

"Then  go,"  said  Steinmetz,  making  one  of  the  few 
mistakes  of  his  life. 

*  You  think  so — you  want  me  to  go  ?  " 

"  Ach !  you  musi  not  put  it  like  that.  How  well 
you  dance — colossal  !  But  it  does  not  affect  me — your 
going,  fraiilein." 

"  Since  you  will  be  there  ?  " 

"  Does  that  make  a  difference,  my  dear  young  lady  ?  " 

*'  Of  course  it  does." 

"  I  wonder  why." 

"  So  do  I,"  answered  Maggie  frankly.  "  I  wonder 
wh}^  I  have  been  wondering  wh}^  ever  since  Paul 
asked  me.  If  you  had  not  been  going  I  should  have 
said  'No'  at  once." 

Karl  Steinmetz  laughed  quietly. 

"  What  do  I  represent  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Safety,"  she  replied  at  once. 

She  gave  a  queer  little  laugh  and  went  on  dancing. 

"And  Paul?"  he  said,  after  a  little  while. 

"  Strength,"  replied  Maggie  promptly. 

He  looked  down  at  her — a  momentary  glance  of 
wond'fer.  He  was  like  a  woman,  inasmuch  as  he  judged 
a  person  by  a  flicker  of  the  eyelids — a  glance,  a  silence-— 
in  preference  to  judging  by  the  spoken  word. 

"  Then  with  us  both  to  take  care  of  you,  may  we  hope 
that  you  will  brave  the  perils  of  Osterno?  Ah — the 
music  is  stopping." 

"  If  I  may  assure  my  mother  that  there  are  no  perils." 

Something  took  place  beneath  the  gray  mustache — a 
smile  or  a  jiursing  up  of  tlie  lips  in  doubt. 


CHARITY 


151 


"Ah,  I  cannot  go  so  far  as  tliat. 
Lady  Delafield  that  I  will  protect  you  as  I  would  my 
own  daughter.  If— well,  if  the  good  God  in  lieaven  had 
not  had  other  uses  for  me  I  should  have  had  a  daughter 
of  your  age.  Ach  !  the  music  has  stopped.  The  music 
always  does  stop,  Miss  Delafield  ;  that  is  the  worst  of 
it.     Thank  you  for  dancing  with  an  old  buffer." 

He  took  her  back  to  her  chaperon,  bowed  in  his  old- 
world  way  to  both  ladies,  and  left  them. 

^'  If  I  can  help  it,  my  very  dear  young  friend,"  he  said 
to  himself  as  he  crossed  the  room,  looking  for  Paul, 
"you  will  not  go  to  Osterno." 

He  found  Paul  talking  to  two  men. 

"You  here  !  "  said  Paul,  in  surprise. 

"  Yes,"  answered  Steinmetz,  shaking  hands.  "  I  gave 
Lady  Fontain  five  guineas  to  let  me  in,  and  now  I  want 
a  couple  of  chairs  and  a  quiet  corner,  if  the  money 
includes  such." 

"  Come  up  into  the  gallery,"  replied  Paul. 

A  certain  listlessness  which  had  been  his  a  moment 
before  vanished  when  Paul  recognized  his  friend.  He 
led  the  way  up  the  narrow  stairs.  In  the  gallery  they 
found  a  few  people— couples  seeking,  like  themselves,  a 
rare  solitude. 

"  What  news?"  asked  Paul,  sitting  down. 

"  Bad  !  "  replied  Steinmetz.  "  We  have  had  the  mis- 
fortune to  make  a  dangerous  enemy — Claude  de  Chaux- 
ville." 

"  Claude  de  Chauxville,"  repeated  Paul. 

"  Yes.  He  wanted  to  marry  your  wife— for  her 
money." 

Paul  leaned  forward  and  dragged  at  his  great  fair 
mustache,  tte  w^as  not  a  subtle  man,  analyzing  his  OAvn 
thoughts.  Had  he  been,  he  might  have  wondered  why 
he  was  not  more  jealous  in  respect  to  Etta. 

"  Or,"  went  on  Steinmetz,  "  it   may   have   been— the 


152  THE     SOAVERS 

otlier  tiling.  It  is  a  singular  thing  that  many  men  in- 
caj^able  of  a  lifelong  love,  can  conceive  a  lifelong  hatred 
based  on  that  love.  Claude  de  Chauxville  has  hated  me 
all  his  life  ;  for  very  good  reasons,  no  doubt.  You  are 
now  included  in  his  antipathy  because  you  married 
madame." 

"  I  dare  say,"  replied  Paul  carelessly.  "  But  I  am 
not  afraid  of  Claude  de  Chauxville,  or  any  other 
man." 

"  I  am,"  said  Steinmetz.  "  He  is  up  to  some  mischief. 
I  was  calling  on  the  Countess  Lanovitch  in  Petersburg 
when  in  walked  Claude  de  Chauxville.  He  was  con- 
strained at  the  sight  of  my  stout  person,  and  showed  it, 
which  was  a  mistake.  Now,  what  is  he  doing  in  Peters- 
burg ?  He  has  not  been  there  for  ten  years,  at  least. 
He  has  no  friends  there.  He  revived  a  minute  acquain- 
tance with  the  Countess  Lanovitch,  who  is  a  fool  of  the 
very  first  water.  Before  I  came  away  I  heard  from 
Catrina  that  he  had  wheedled  an  invitation  to  Thors  out 
of  the  old  lady.     Why,  my  friend,  why  ?  " 

Paul  reflected,  with  a  frown. 

"  We  do  not  want  him  out  there,"  he  said. 

"  No  ;  and  if  he  goes  there  you  must  remain  in 
England  this  winter." 

Paul  looked  up  sharply. 

"I  do  not  want  to  do  that.  It  is  all  arranged,"  he 
said.  "  Etta  was  very  much  against  going  at  first,  but 
I  persuaded  her  to  do  so.  It  would  be  a  mistake  not  to 
go  now." 

Looking  at  him  gravely,  Steinmetz  muttered,  "  I 
advise  you  not  to  go." 

Paul  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  I  am  sorry,"  he  said.  "  It  is  too  late  now.  Besides, 
I  have  invited  Miss  Delafield,  and  she  has  practically 
accepted." 

"  Docs  tliat  matter?  "  asked  Steinmetz  quietly. 


CHARITY  153 

**  Yes.  I  do  not  want  her  to  tliink  that  I  am  a 
changeable  sort  of  person." 

Steinmetz  rose,  and  standing  with  his  two  hands  on 
the  marble  rail  he  looked  down  into  the  room  below. 
The  music  of  a  waltz  was  just  beginning,  and  some  of 
the  more  enthusiastic  spirits  had  already  begun  danc- 
ing, moving  in  and  out  among  the  uniforms  and  gay 
dresses. 

"Well,"  he  said  resignedly;  "it  is  as  you  will. 
There  is  a  certain  pleasure  in  outwitting  De  Chauxviile. 
He  is  so  d d  clever  !  " 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

IN    THE    CHAMPS    KLYSEES 

"  You  must  accept,"  Steinmetz  repeated  to  Paul. 
"  Tliere  is  no  lielp  for  it.  We  cannot  afford  to  offend 
Vassili,  of  all  people  in  the  world." 

They  were  standing  together  in  the  saloon  of  a  suite 
of  rooms  assigned  for  the  time  to  Paul  and  his  party  in 
the  Hotel  Bristol  in  Paris.  Steinmetz,  who  held  an 
open  letter  in  his  hand,  looked  out  of  the  window  across 
tlie  quiet  Place  Vendume.  A  north  wind  was  blowing 
with  true  Parisian  keenness,  driving  before  it  a  fine  snow, 
which  adhered  bleakly  to  the  northern  face  of  a  column 
which  is  chiefly  remarkable  for  the  facility  with  which 
it  falls  and  rises  again. 

Steinmetz  looked  at  the  letter  with  a  queer  smil^. 
He  held  it  out  from  him  as  if  he  distrusted  the  very 
stationery. 

"So  friendl}^,"  he  exclaimed;  "so  very  friendh' ! 
*  Ce  bon  Steinmetz'  he  calls  me.  '  Ce  bon  Steinmetz  ' — 
confound  his  cheek  !  He  hopes  that  his  dear  prince  will 
waive  ceremony  and  bring  his  charming  princess  to 
dine  quite  en  famille  at  his  little  pied  A,  terre  in  the 
Champs  Elysoes.  He  guarantees  that  only  his  sister, 
the  marquise,  will  be  present,  and  he  hopes  tiiat  *  Ce 
bon  Steinmetz,'  will  accompany  joUy  and  also  the 
young  lady,  the  cousin   of   the  princess." 

Steinmetz  threw  the  letter  down  on  the  table,  left  it 
there  for  a  moment,  and  then,  picking  it  up,  he  crossed 
the  room  and  threw  it  into  tlie  fire. 

"Which   means,"    he   explained,    "that   M.    Vassili 


IX    THE    CIIAMrS    i:jA'SEES  156 

knows  we  arc  licrc,  and  uiik'ss  wo  dine  witli  liim  we  sliall 
be  subjected  to  annoyance  and  delay  on  the  frontier  by 
a  stupid — a  singularly  and  suspiciously  stupid — minor 
ofHcial.  If  we  refuse,  Vassili  will  conclude  that  we  are 
afraid  of  him.  Therefore  we  must  accept.  Especially 
as  Vassili  has  his  weak  points.  lie  loves  a  lord,  '  Ce 
Vassili.'  If  you  accept  on  some  of  that  stationery  I 
ordered  for  you  with  a  colossal  gold  coronet,  that  will 
already  be  of  some  effect.  A  chain  is  as  strong  as  its 
weakest  link.  M.  Vassili's  weakest  link  will  be  touched 
b}^  your  gorgeous  note-paper.  If  ce  cher  prince  and  la 
charraante  princesse  are  gracious  to  him,  Vassili  is 
already  robbed  of  half  his  danger." 

Paul  laughed.  It  was  his  habit  either  to  laugh  or  to 
grumble  at  Karl  Steinmetz's  somewhat  subtle  precau- 
tions. The  word  "danger"  invariably  made  him  laugh, 
with  a  ring  in  his  voice  which  seemed  to  betoken  en- 
joyment. 

"Of  course,"  he  said,  "  I  leave  these  matters  to  yon. 
Let  us  show  Vassili,  at  all  events,  that  we  are  not  afraid 
of  him." 

"  Then  sit  down  a«d  accept." 

Tliat  which  M.  Vassili  was  pleased  to  call  his  little 
dog-hole  in  the  Champs  Elysees  was,  in  fact,  a  gorgeous 
house  in  the  tawdry  style  of  modern  Paris — resplendent 
in  gray  iron  railings,  and  high  gate-posts  surmounted 
by  green  cactus  plants  cunningly  devised  in  cast  iron. 

The  heavy  front  door  was  thrown  open  by  a  lackey, 
and  others  bowed  in  the  halls  as  if  by  machinery.  Two 
maids  pounced  upon  the  ladies  with  the  self-assurance 
of  their  kind  and  countr}^,  and  led  the  way  upstairs, 
while  the  men  removed  fur  coats  in  the  hall.  It  was  all 
very  princely  and  gorgeous  and  Parisian. 

Vassili  and  his  sister  the  marquise^-a  stout  lady  in 
ruby  velvet  and  amethysts,  who  invariably  caused 
Maggie    Delafield's    mouth     to    twitch    whenever   she 


156  THE     so  AVERS 

openeel  her  own  during  the  evening — received  the 
guests  in  the  drawing-room.  The}^  were  standing  on 
the  white  fur  liearth-rug  side  by  side,  when  the  doors 
were  dramatically  thrown  open,  and  the  servant  rolled 
the  names  unctuously  over  his  tongue. 

Steinmetz,  who  was  behind,  saw  every  thing.  lie  saw 
Vassili's  masklike  face  contract  witli  stupefaction  when 
lie  set  eyes  on  Etta.  He  saw  the  self-contained  Rus- 
sian give  a  little  gasp,  and  mutter  an  exclamation  before 
he  collected  himself  sufficiently  to  bow  and  conceal  his 
face.  But  he  could  not  see  Etta's  face  for  a  moment  or 
two — until  the  formal  greetings  were  over.  When  he 
did  see  it,  he  noted  that  it  was  as  white  as  marble. 

"  Alia  !  Ce  bon  Steinmetz  !  "  cried  Vassili,  with  less 
formality,  holding  out  his  hand  with  frank  and  boyish 
good  humor. 

"  Aha  !  Ce  cher  Vassili  !  "  returned  Steinmetz,  taking 
the  hand. 

"  It  is  good  of  you,  M.  le  Prince,  and  you,  madame, 
to  honor  us  in  our  small  house,"  said  the  marquise  in  a 
guttural  voice  such  as  one  might  expect  from  within 
ruby  velvet  and  ametliysts.  Thereafter  she  subsided 
into  silence  and  obscurity  so  far  as  the  evening  was  con- 
cerned and  the  present  historian  is  interested. 

"So,"  said  Vassili,  with  a  comprehensive  bow  to  all 
his  guests — "  so  you  are  bound  for  Russia.  But  I  envy 
you— I  envy  you.  You  know  Russia,  Mme.  la  Prin- 
cesse?" 

Etta  met  his  veiled  gaze  calmly. 

"  A  little,"  she  replied. 

There  was  no  sign  of  recognition  in  his  eyes  now,  nor 
pallor  on  her  face. 

"  A  beautiful  country,  but  the  rest  of  Europe  does 
not  believe  it.  And  the  estate  of  the  prince  is  one  of 
the  vastest,  if  not  the  most  beautiful.  It  is  a  sporting 
estate,  is  it  not,  prince  ?  " 


IN    TIIK    CIIAMrS    ELYSEES  157 

*'  li.ssLMiLi;illy  so,"  replied  Paul.  "  Bears,  wolves, 
deer,  besides,  of  course,  black  game,  capercailzie,  ptar- 
migan— every  thing  one  could  desire." 

"  Speaking  as  a  sportsman,"  suggested  Vassili  gravely. 

"  Speaking  as  a  sportsman." 

"  Of  course "  Vassili  paused,  and  with  a  little  ges- 
ture of  the  hand  included  Steinmetz  in  the  conversation. 
It  may  have  been  that  he  preferred  to  have  him  talking 
tiian  watching.  "  Of  course,  like  all  great  Russian 
landholders,  you  have  your  troubles  with  the  people, 
though  you  are  not,  strictly  speaking,  within  the  famine 
district." 

"  Not  quite  ;  we  are  not  starving,  but  we  are 
hungry,"  said   Steinmetz  bluntly. 

Vassili  laughed,  and  shook  a  gold  eye-glass  chidingl3^ 

''Ah,  my  friend,  your  old  pernicious  habit  of  calling 
a  spade  a  spade  !  It  is  unfortunate  that  they  should 
hunger  a  little,  but  what  will  you  ?  They  must  learn  to 
be  provident,  to  work  harder  and  drink  less.  With 
such  people  experience  is  the  only  taskmaster  possible. 
It  is  useless  talking  to  them.  It  is  dangerous  to  pauper- 
ize them.  Besides,  the  accounts  that  one  reads  in  the 
newspapers  are  manifestly  absurd  and  exaggerated. 
You  must  not,  mademoiselle,"  he  said,  turning  courte- 
ously to  Maggie,  "  you  must  not  believe  all  you  are  told 
about  Russia." 

"  I  do  not,"  replied  Maggie,  with  an  honest  smile 
which  completely  baffled  M.  Vassili.  He  had  not  had 
much  to  do  with  people  who  smiled  honestly. 

"  Vrai !  "  he  said,  with  grave  emphasis  ;  "  I  am  not 
joking.  It  is  a  matter  of  the  strictest  fact  that  fiction 
has  for  the  moment  fixed  its  fancy  upon  my  country — 
just  as  it  has  upon  the  East  End  of  your  London.  Mon 
Dieu  !  what  a  lot  of  harm  fiction  witli  a  purpose  can  do  !  " 
"  But  we  do  not  take  our  facts  from  fiction  in  Eng- 
land," said  Maggie. 


158  THE     SOWERS 

"  Nor,"  put  in  Steimnetz,  with  liis  blandest  smile,  "do 
we  allow  lictioii  to  affect  our  facts." 

Yassili  glanced  at  Steinmetz  sidewaj's. 

"  Here  is  dinner,"  he  said.  "  Mine,  la  Princesse,  may  I 
have  the  honor?  " 

The  table  was  gorgeously  decorated  ;  the  Avine  was 
perfect ;  the  dishes  Parisian.  Ever}^  thing  was  brilliant, 
and  Etta's  spirits  rose.  Such  little  tilings  affect  the 
spirits  of  such  little-minded  women.  It  requires  a  cer- 
tain mental  reserve  from  which  to  extract  cheerfulness 
over  a  chop  and  a  pint  of  beer  withal,  served  on  a  doubt- 
ful cloth.  But  some  of  us  find  it  easy  enough  to  be 
witty  and  brilliant  over  good  wine  and  a  perfectly 
appointed  table. 

"It  is  exile  ;  it  is  nothing  short  of  exile,"  protested 
Vassili,  w^ho  led  the  conversation.  "  Much  as  I  admire 
my  own  countr}^,  as  a  country,  I  do  not  pretend  to 
regret  a  fate  that  keeps  me  resident  in  Paris.  For  men 
it  is  different,  but  for  madame,  and  for  you,  mademoi- 
selle—  ach  !  "  He  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  looked 
up  to  the  ceiling  in  mute  appeal  to  the  gods  above 
it.  "  Beauty,  brilliancy,  wit — they  are  all  lost  in 
Russia." 

He  bowed  to  the  princess,  who  was  looking,  and  to 
Maggie,  who  was  not. 

"  What  Avould  Paris  say  if  it  knew  what  it  was  los- 
ing ?  "  he  added  in  a  lower  tone  to  Etta,  who  smiled, 
well  pleased.  'She  was  not  always  able  to  distinguish 
between  impertinence  and  flatter}^  And  indeed  they 
are  so  closely  allied  that  the  distinction  is  subtle. 

Steinmetz,  on  the  left  hand  of  the  marquise,  addressed 
one  or  two  remarks  to  that  lady,  who  replied  with  her 
mouth  full.  He  soon  discovered  that  that  which  was 
before  her  interested  her  more  than  any  thing  around, 
and  during  the  banquet  he  contented  himself  by  uttering 
an  exclamation  of  delight  at  a   particular   flavor  which 


IX    Tfll<:    CIIAMI'S    i;LYSi!.ES  159 

the  lady  was  kind  enough  to  point  out  to  him  witli  an 
eloquent  and  empliatic  fork  from  time  to  time. 

Vassili  noted  this  with  some  disgust.  He  would  have 
^referred  that  Karl  Steinmetz  were  greedy  or  more  con- 
versational. 

"  But,"  the  host  added  aloud,  "ladies  are  so  goodo 
Perliaps  you  are  interested  in  the  peasants  ?  " 

Etta  looked  at  Steinmetz,  who  gave  an  imperceptible 
nod. 

"  Yes,"  she  answered,  "  I  am." 

Vassili  followed  her  glance,  and  found  Steinmetz  eat- 
ing with  grave  appreciation  of  the  fare  provided. 

"Ah  !  "  he  said  in  an  expectant  tone  ;  "  then  you  will 
no  doubt  pass  much  of  your  time  in  endeavoring  to 
alleviate  their  troubles — their  self-inflicted  troubles, 
with  all  deference  to  ce  cher  prince." 

"  Why  with  deference  to  me  ?  "  asked  Paul,  looking 
uj>  quietly,  with  something  in  his  steady  gaze  tliat  made 
]Maggie  glance  anxiously  at  Steinmetz. 

"  Well,  I  understand  that  you  hold  different  opinions," 
said  the  Russian. 

"  Not  at  all,"  answered  Paul.  "  I  admit  that  the 
peasants  have  themselves  to  blame — just  as  a  dog  has 
himself  to  blame  when  he  is  caught  in  a  trap." 

"Is  the  case  analogous?  Let  me  recommend  those 
olives — I  have  them  from  Barcelona  by  a  courier." 

"  Quite,"  answered  Paul  ;  "  and  it  is  the  obvious  duty 
of  those  who  know  better  to  teach  the  dog  to  avoid  the 
places  where  the  traps  are  set.  Thanks,  the  olives  are 
excellent." 

"Ah  !"  said  Vassili,  turning  courteously  to  Maggie, 
"  I  sometimes  thank  my  star  that  I  am  not  a  landholder 
— only  a  poor  bureaucrat.  It  is  so  difficult  to  compre- 
hend these  questions,  mademoiselle.  But  of  all  men  in 
Qv  out  of  Russia  it  is  possible  our  dear  prince  knows  best 
of  what  he  is  talking." 


160  THE     SOWEES 

"  oil,  no  ! "  disclaimed  Paul,  with  that  gravity  at 
wliich  some  were  ready  to  laugh.  "  I  only  judge  in  a 
small  wa}^  from  a  small  experience." 

"  Ah  !  you  are  too  modest.  You  know  the  peasants 
thoroughly,  you  understand  them,  you  love  them — so, 
at  least,  I  have  been  told.  Is  it  not  so,  Mme.  la  Prin- 
cesse  ? " 

Karl  Steinmetz  was  frowning  over  an  olive. 

"  I  really  do  not  know,"  said  Etta,  who  had  glanced 
across  the  table. 

"  I  assure  you,  madame,  it  is  so.  I  am  always  hearing 
good  of  you,  prince." 

"  From  whom  ?  "  asked  Paul. 

Yassili  shrugged  his  peculiarly  square  shoulders. 

*'  Ah  !     From  all  and  sundry." 

"I  did  not  know  the  prince  had  so  many  enemies," 
said  Steinmetz  bluntly,  whereat  the  marquise  laughed 
suddenly,  and  apparently  approached  within  bowing  dis- 
tance of  apoplexy. 

In  such  wise  the  conversation  went  on  during  the  din- 
ner, which  was  a  long  one.  Continually,  repeatedly, 
Vassili  approached  the  subject  of  Osterno  and  the  daily 
life  in  that  sequestered  country.  But  those  who  knew 
were  silent,  and  it  was  obvious  that  Etta  and  Maggie 
were  ignorant  of  the  life  to  which  they  were  going. 

From  time  to  time  Vassili  raised  his  dull,  yellow  eyes 
to  the  servants,  who  d'ailleurs  were  doing  their  work 
perfectly,  and  invariably  the  master's  glance  fell  to  the 
glasses  again.  These  the  servants  never  left  in  peace — 
constantly  replenishing,  constantly  watching  Avith  that 
assiduity  Avhich  makes  men  thirsty  against  their  will  by 
reason  of  the  repeated  reminder. 

But  tongues  wagged  no  more  freely  for  the  choice 
vintages  poured  upon  them.  Paul  had  a  grave,  strong 
head  and  that  self-control  against  which  alcohol  may  ply 
itself  in  vain.     Karl  Steinmetz  had  taken  his  degree  at 


IN    THE    CHAMPS    ELYSEES  161 

Heidelberg.     He  was  a  seasoned  vessel,  having  passed 
that  way  before. 

Etta  was  bright  enough — amusing,  light,  and  gay — so 
long  as  it  was  a  question  of  mere  social  gossip  ;  but 
whenever  Vassili  spoke  of  the  country  to  whicli  he 
expressed  so  deep  a  devotion,  she,  seeming  to  take  her 
cue  from  her  husband  and  his  agent,  fell  to  pleasant,  non- 
committing  silence. 

It  was  only  after  dinner,  in  the  drawing-room,  while 
musicians  discoursed  Offenbach  and  Rossini  from  behind 
a  screen  of  fern  and  flower,  that  Vassili  found  an  oppor- 
tunity of  addressing  himself  directly  to  Etta.  In  part 
she  desired  this  opportunity,  with  a  breathless  appie- 
hension  behind  her  bright  society  smile.  Without  her 
assistance  he  never  would  have  had  it. 

"  It  is  most  kind  of  you,"  he  said  in  French,  whicli 
language  had  been  spoken  all  the  evening  in  courtesy  to 
the  marquise,  who  was  now  asleep — "  it  is  most  kind  of 
you  to  condescend  to  visit  my  poor  house,  princess. 
Believe  me,  I  feel  the  honor  deepl3^  When  you  first 
came  into  the  room — you  may  have  observed  it — I  was 
quite  taken  aback.  I — I  have  read  in  books  of  beauty 
capable  of  taking  away  a  man's  breath.  You  must 
excuse  me — I  am  a  plain-spoken  man.  I  never  met  it 
until  this  evening." 

Etta  excused  him  readily  enough.  She  could  forgive 
plentj'-  of  plain-speaking  of  this  description.  Had  she 
not  been  inordinately  vain,  this  woman,  like  many,  would 
have  been  extraordinarily  clever.  She  laughed,  with 
little  sidelong  glances. 

"  I  only  hope  that  you  will  honor  Paris  on  your  way 
home  to  England,"  went  on  Vassili,  who  had  a  wonder- 
ful knack  of  judging  men  and  women,  especially  shallow 
ones.  "  Now,  when  may  that  be  ?  When  ma}^  we  hope 
to  see  you  again  ?     How  long   will  you  be  in   Russia, 

and " 

11 


162  THE     SOWERS 

"  Ce  Vassili  is  the  best  English  scholar  I  know  ! " 
broke  in  Steinmetz,  who  had  aj^proached  somewhat 
quietly.     *'  But  he  will  not  talk,  princess — he  is  so  shy.^^ 

Paul  was  approaching-  also.  It  was  eleven  o'clock,  he 
said,  and  travellers  who  had  to  make  an  early  start  would 
do  well  to  get  home  to  bed. 

When  the  tall  doors  had  been  closed  behind  the  depart- 
ing guests,  Vassili  walked  slowly  to  tlie  fire-place.  He 
posted  himself  on  the  bear-skin  hearthrug,  his  perfectly 
shod  feet  well  apart — a  fine  dignified  figure  of  a  man,  of 
erect  and  military  carriage  ;  a  very  mask  of  a  face — 
soulless,  colorless,  emotionless  ever. 

He  stood  biting  at  his  thumb-nail,  looking  at  the  door 
through  which  Etta  Alexis  had  just  passed  in  all  the 
glory  of  her  beauty,  wealth,  and  position. 

"  The  woman,"  he  said  slowl}^,  "  who  sold  me  the 
Charity  League  papers — and  she  thinks  I  do  not  recog- 
nize her  ! " 


CHAPTER  XIX 

ON  THE  NEVA 

Karl  Steinmetz  had  apparently  been  transacting 
business  on  the  Vassili  Ostrov,  which  the  travelled  reader 
doubtless  knows  as  the  northern  bank  of  the  Neva,  a 
part  of  Petersburg — an  island,  as  the  name  tells  us,  Avhere 
business  is  transacted  ;  where  steamers  land  their  car- 
goes and  riverside  loafers  impede  the  traffic. 

What  the  business  of  Karl  Steinmetz  may  have  been 
is  not  of  moment  or  interest  ;  moreover,  it  was  essen- 
tially the  affair  of  a  man  capable  of  holding  his  own  and 
his  tongue  against  the  world. 

He  was  recrossing  the  river,  not  by  the  bridge,  which 
requires  a  doffed  hat  by  reason  of  its  shrine,  but  by  one 
of  the  numerous  roads  cut  across  the  ice  from  bank  to 
bank.  He  duly  reached  the  southern  shore,  ascending 
to  the  Admiralty  Gardens  by  a  flight  of  sanded  steps. 
Here  he  lighted  a  cigar,  and,  tucking  his  hands  deep  into 
the  pockets  of  his  fur  coat,  he  proceeded  to  walk  slowly 
through  the  bare  and  deserted  public  garden. 

A  girl  had  crossed  the  river  in  front  of  him  at  a  smart 
pace.  She  now  slackened  her  speed  so  much  as  to  allow 
liim  to  pass  her.  Karl  Steinmetz  noticed  the  action. 
He  noticed  most  things — this  dull  German.  Presently 
she  passed  him  again.  She  dropped  her  umbrella,  and 
before  picking  it  up  described  a  circle  with  it — a 
manoeuvre  remarkably  like  a  signal.  Then  she  turned 
abruptly  and  looked  into  his  face,  displaying  a  pleasing 
little  round  physiognomy  with  a  smiling  month  and 
exaggeratedly  grave  eyes.     It  was  a  face  of  all  too  com- 


164  THE     so  WEES 

mon  a  type  in  tliese  days  of  cheap  educational  litera- 
ture— tlie  face  of  a  womanly  woman  engaged  in  un- 
wonianl}^  work. 

Then  she  came  back. 

Steinmetz  raised  his  liat  in  his  most  fatherly  way. 

''  My  dear  young  lady,"  he  said  in  Russian,  "  if  ray 
personal  appearance  has  made  so  profound  an  impression 
as  my  vanity  prompts  me  to  believe,  would  it  not  be 
decorous  of  you  to  conceal  your  feelings  beneath  a  maiden 
modesty  ?  If,  on  the  other  hand,  the  signals  you  have 
been  making  to  me  are  of  profound  political  importance, 
let  me  assure  you  tliat  I  am  no  Nihilist." 

"  Then,"  said  the  girl,  beginning  to  walk  by  his  side, 
"  what  are  you  ?  " 

"  What  you  see — a  stout  middle-aged  man  in  easy  cir- 
cumstatices,  happil}^  placed  in  social  obscurity.  Which 
means  that  I  have  few  enemies  and  fewer  friends." 

The  girl  looked  as  if  she  would  like  to  laugh,  had  such 
exercise  been  in  keeping  with  a  professional  etiquette. 

"  Your  name  is  Karl  Steinmetz,"  she  said  gravel3^ 

"That  is  the  name  by  which  I  am  known  to  a  large 
staff  of  creditors,"  replied  he. 

"  If  you  will  go  to  No.  4,  Passage  Kazan,  at  the  back  of 
the  catliedral,  second-floor  back  room  on  the  left  at  the 
top  of  the  stairs,  and  go  straight  into  the  room,  you 
will  find  a  friend  -who  wishes  to  see  you,"  she  said,  as 
one  repeating  a  lesson  by  rote. 

"And  who  are  you,  my  dear  j^oung  ]a.dj  !  " 

"  I — I  am  no  one.     I  am  only  a  paid  agent." 

"Ah!" 

They  walked  on  in  silence  a  few  paces.  The  bells  of 
St.  Isaac's  Church  suddenly  burst  out  into  a  wild  carillon, 
as  is  their  way,  effectually  preventing  further  conversa- 
tion for  a  few  moments. 

"Will  5^ou  go?"  asked  the  girl,  when  the  sound  had 
broken  off  as  suddenly  as  it  had  commenced. 


ON    THE    NEVA  1G5 

"Probably.  I  am  curious  and  not  nervous — except 
of  (lamp  slieets.  My  anonymous  friend  does  not  expect 
me  to  stay  all  night,  I  presume.  Did  he — or  is  it  a  she, 
my  fatal  beauty  ? — did  it  not  name  an  hour?" 

"  Between  now  and  seven  o'clock." 

"Thank  you." 

"  God  be  with  j^ou  !  "  said  the  girl,  suddenly  wheeling 
round  and  walking  away. 

Without  looking  after  her  Stein metz  walked  on,  gradu- 
ally increasing  his  pace.  In  a  few  minutes  he  reached  the 
large  house  standing  within  iron  gates  at  the  uppei-  end 
of  the  English  quay,  the  house  of  Prince  Pavlo  Howard 
Alexis. 

He  found  Paul  alone  in  his  study.  In  a  few  words 
he  explained  the  situation. 

"What  do  you  think  it  means?"  asked  the  prince. 

"Heaven  only  knows  !" 

"And  you  will  go?" 

"  Of  course,"  replied  Steinmetz.  "I  love  a  mystery, 
especially  in  Petersburg.  It  sounds  so  like  a  romance 
written  in  the  Kennington  Road  by  a  lady  who  has 
never  been  nearer  to  Russia  than  Margate." 

"I  had  better  go  with  you,"  said  Paul. 

"Gott!  No!"  exclaimed  Steinmetz;  "I  must  go 
alone.  I  will  take  Parks  to  drive  the  sleigh,  if  I  may, 
though.  Parks  is  a  steady  man,  who  loves  a  rough- 
and-tumble.  A  typical  British  coachman — the  brave 
Parks  !  " 

"  Back  in  time  for  dinner?  "  asked  Paul. 

"I  hope  so.  I  have  had  such  mysterious  appoint- 
ments thrust  upon  me  before.  It  is  probably  a  friend 
who  wants  a  hundred-ruble  note  until  next  Monday." 

Tlie  cathedral  clock  struck  six  as  Karl  Steinmetz 
turned  out  of  the  Nevski  Prospekt  into  the  large 
square  before  the  sacred  edifice.  He  soon  found  the 
Kazan  Passage — a  very  nest  of  toyshops — and,  follow- 


166  THE     SOWERS 

ing  the  directions  given,  he  mounted  a  narrow  staircase. 
Ho  knocked  at  the  door  on  the  left  hand  at  the  top  of 
the  stairs. 

"  Come  in  ! "  said  a  voice  which  caused  him  to  start. 

lie  pushed  open  tlie  door.  The  room  was  a  small 
one,  brilliantly  lighted  by  a  paraffin  lamp.  At  the  table 
sat  an  old  man  with  broad  benevolent  face,  high  fore- 
head, thin  hair,  and  that  smile  which  savors  of  the  milk 
of  human  kindness,  and  in  England  suggests  Noncon- 
formity. 

"  You  !  "  ejaculated  Steinmetz.     "  Stepan  !  " 

"  Yes.     Come  in  and  close  the  door." 

He  laid  aside  his  pen,  extended  his  hand,  and,  rising, 
kissed  Karl  Steinmetz  on  both  cheeks  after  the  manner 
of  Russians, 

"  Yes,  my  dear  Karl.  It  seems  that  the  good  God 
has  still  a  little  work  for  Stepan  Lanovitch  to  do.  I 
got  away  quite  easil}^,  in  the  usual  wa}^,  through  a  paid 
Evasion  Agency.  I  have  been  forwarded  from  pillar 
to  post  like  a  prize  fowl,  and  reached  Petersburg  last 
night.  I  have  not  long  to  stay.  I  am  going  south.  I 
may  be  able  to  do  some  good  yet.  I  hear  that  Paul  is 
working  wonders  in  Tver." 

"  What  about  money  ? "  asked  Steinmetz,  who  was 
always  practical. 

"  Catrina  sent  it,  the  dear  child  !  That  is  one  of  the 
conditions  made  by  the  Agency — a  hard  one.  I  am  to 
see  no  relations.  My  wife — well,  bon  Dieu  !  it  does 
not  matter  much.  Siie  is  occupied  in  keeping  herself 
warm,  no  doubt.  I>ut  Catrina !  that  is  a  different 
matter.  Tell  me — how  is  she  ?  That  is  the  first  thing 
I  want  to  know." 

"  She  is  well,"  answered  Steinmetz.  ^'  I  saw  her 
yesterday." 

"And  happy?"  The  broad-faced  man  looked  into 
Steinmetz's  face  with  considerable  keenness. 


ON    THE    NEVA  167 

"  Yes." 

It  was  a  moment  for  mental  reservations.  One  won- 
ders whether  such  are  taken  account  of  in  heaven. 

"And  Paul?"  asked  the  Count  Stcpan  Lanovitch  at 
once.     "  Tell  me  about  him." 

"  He  is  married,"  answered  Steinmetz. 

Tlie  Count  Lanovitch  was  looking  at  the  lamp.  He 
continued  to  look  at  it  as  if  interested  in  tlie  mechanism 
of  tlie  burner.  Then  he  turned  his  eyes  to  the  face  of 
his  companion. 

"  I  wonder,  my  friend,"  he  said  slowly,  "  how  much 
you  know  ?  " 

"Nothing,"  answered  Steinmetz. 

The  count  looked  at  him  enquiringly,  heaved  a  sharp 
sigli,  and  abandoned  the  subject. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  "  let  us  get  to  business.  I  have 
much  to  ask  and  to  tell  you.  I  want  you  to  see  Catrina 
and  to  tell  her  that  I  am  safe  and  well,  but  she  must  not 
attempt  to  see  me  or  correspond  with  me  for  some  years 
3'et.  Of  course  you  heard  no  account  of  my  trial.  I 
was  convicted,  on  the  evidence  of  paid  witnesses,  of 
inciting  to  rebellion.  It  was  easy  enougli,  of  course. 
I  shall  live  either  in  the  south  or  in  Austria.  It  is  bet- 
ter for  you  to  be  in  ignorance." 

Steinmetz  nodded  his  head  curtly. 

"  I  do  not  want  to  know,"  he  said. 

"'  Will  you  please  ask  Catrina  to  send  me  money 
through  the  usual  channel?  No  more  than  she  lias 
been  sending.  It  will  suffice  for  my  small  wants. 
Perhaps  some  day  we  may  meet  in  Switzerland  or  in 
America.  Tell  the  dear  child  that.  Tell  her  I  pray 
the  good  God  to  allow  that  meeting.  As  for  Russia, 
her  day  has  not  come  j^et.  It  will  not  come  in  our 
time,  my  dear  friend.  We  are  only  the  sowers.  So 
much  for  the  future.  Now  about  the  past.  I  have  not 
been  idle.     I  know  who  stole  the  papers  of  the  Charity 


168  THE     SOWERS 

League  and  sold  tliera.  I  know  who  bought  them  and 
paid  for  them." 

Steinmetz  closed  the  door.  He  came  back  to  the 
table.     He  was  not  smiling  now — quite  the  contrary. 

"  Tell  me,"  he  said.     "  I  want  to  know  that  badly." 

The  Count  Lanovitch  looked  up  with  a  peculiar  soft 
/smile — acquired  in  prison.     There  is  no  mistaking  it. 

"  Oh,  I  bear  no  ill  will,"  he  said. 

"  I  do,"  answered  Steinmetz  bluntl}^  "  Who  stole 
the  papers  from  Tliors  ?  " 

"  Sydne}^  Baniborough." 

"Good  God  in  heaven  !     Is  that  true  ?  " 

"  Yes,  my  friend." 

Steinmetz  passed  his  broad  liand  over  his  forehead  as 
if  dazed. 

"  And  who  sold  them  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  His  wife." 

Count  Lanovitch  was  looking  at  the  burner  of  the 
lamp.  There  was  a  peculiar  crushed  look  about  the 
man,  as  if  he  had  reached  the  end  of  his  life,  and  was 
lying  like  a  ship,  hopelessly  disabled  in  smooth  water, 
where  nothing  could  affect  him  more. 

Steinmetz  scratched  his  forehead  with  one  finger, 
reflectively. 

"  Vassili  bought  them,"  he  said  ;  "  I  can  guess  that." 

"You  guess  right,"  returned  Lanovitch  quietly. 

Steinmetz  sat  down.  He  looked  round  as  if  wonder- 
ing whether  tlie  room  was  very  hot.  Then  with  a  large 
handkerchief  he  wiped  his  brow. 

"  You  have  surprised  me,"  he  admitted.  "  There  are 
complications.  I  shall  sit  up  all  night  with  your  news, 
my  dear  Stepan.  Have  you  details?  AVonderful — 
wonderful !  Of  course  there  is  a  God  in  heaven.  How 
can  people  doubt  it — eh  ?  " 

"Yes,"  said  Stepan  Lanovitch  quietly.  "There  is  a 
God  in  heaven,  and  at  present  he  is  angry  with  Russia. 


TEINMF^TZ    PASSED    HIS    BKOAD   HAND    OVER    IIIS   FUUEHEAD    AS 
IF   dazed" 


ON    THE    NEVA  169 

Yes,  I  liav^e  details.  Sydiie}^  Bamborough  came  to  stay 
at  Thors.  Of  course  he  knew  all  about  the  Cliarity 
League — you  reuiember  tliat.  It  appears  that  his  wife 
was  waiting  for  him  and  the  papers  at  Tver.  He  took 
them  from  my  room,  but  he  did  not  get  them  all.  Had 
he  got  them  all  you  would  not  be  sitting  there,  my 
friend.  The  general  scheme  he  got— the  list  of  com- 
mittee names,  the  local  agents,  the  foreign  agents.  But 
the  complete  list  of  the  League  he  failed  to  find.  He 
secured  the  list  of  subscribers,  but  learned  nothing  from 
it  because  the  sums  were  identified  by  a  numeral  only, 
the  clue  to  the  numbers  being  the  complete  list,  which 
I  burned  when  I  missed  the  other  papers." 

Steinmetz  nodded  curtly. 

"  That  was  wise,"  he  said.  "  You  are  a  clever  man, 
Stepan,  but  too  good  for  this  world  and  its  rascals. 
Go  on." 

"It  would  appear  that  Bamborough  rode  to  Tver 
with  the  papers,  which  he  handed  to  his  wife.  She  took 
them  to  Paris  while  he  intended  to  come  back  to  Thors. 
He  had  a  certain  cheap  cunning  and  unbounded  imper- 
tinence.    But — as  you  know,  perhaps — he  disappeared." 

"  Yes,"  said  Steinmetz,  scratching  his  forehead  with 
one  finger.     "  Yes — he  disappeared." 

Karl  Steinmetz  had  one  great  factor  of  success  in  this 
world — an  infinite  capacity  for  holding  his  cards. 

"  One  more  item,"  said  the  count,  in  his  businesslike, 
calm  way.  "Vassili  paid  that  woman  seven  thousand 
pounds  for  the  papers." 

"And  probably  charged  his  masters  ten,"  added  Stein- 
metz. 

"  And  now  you  must  go  !  " 

The  count  rose  and  looked  at  his  watch— a  cheap 
American  article,  with  a  loud  tick.  He  held  it  out  with 
his  queer  washed-out  smile,  and  Steinmetz  smiled. 

The   two   embraced   again— and   there    was   nothing 


170  THE     SOWERS 

funny  in  the  action.  It  is  a  singular  thing  tliat  the 
sight  of  two  men  kissing  is  conducive  either  to  laughter 
or  to  tears.     There  is  no  medium  emotion. 

"My  dear  friend — my  very  dear  friend,"  said  the 
count,  "God  be  with  you  always.  We  may  meet  again 
— or  we  may  not." 

Steinmetz  walked  down  the  Nevski  Prospekt  on  the 
left-hand  pavement — no  one  walks  on  the  other — and 
the  sleigh  followed  him.  He  turned  into  a  large,  brill- 
iantly lighted  cafe,  and  loosened  his  coat. 

"  Give  me  beer,"  he  said  to  the  waiter  ;  "  a  very  large 
quantity  of  it." 

The  man  smiled  obsequiously  as  he  set  the  foaming 
mug  before  him. 

"  Is  it  that  his  Excellency  is  cold  ?  "  he  enquired. 

''No,  it  isn't,"  answered  Steinmetz.  "  Quite  the  con- 
trary." 

He  drank  the  beer,  and  holding  out  his  hand  in  the 
shadow  of  the  table,  he  noticed  that  it  trembled  only  a 
little. 

"  That  is  better,"  he  murmured.  "  But  I  must  sit 
here  a  while  longer.  I  suppose  I  was  upset.  That  is 
what  they  call  it — upset  !  I  have  never  been  like  that 
before.  Those  lamps  in  the  Prospekt  !  Gott  !  how 
they  jumped  up  and  down  !  '^ 

He  pressed  his  hand  over  his  eyes  as  if  to  shut  out  the 
brightness  of  the  room — the  glaring  gas  and  brilliant 
decorations — the  shining  bottles  and  the  many  tables 
which  would  not  keep  still. 

"  Here,"  he  said  to  the  man,  "give  me  more  beer," 

Presently  he  rose,  and,  getting  rather  clumsily  into 
his  sleigh,  drove  back  at  the  usual  breakneck  pace  to  the 
palace  at  the  upper  end  of  the  English  Quay. 

He. sent  an  ambiguous  message  to  Paul,  sa^'-ing  that  he 
had  returned  and  was  dressing  for  dinner.  This  cere- 
mony he  went  through  slowly,  as  one  dazed  by  a  great 


ON    THE    NEVA  l7l 

fall  or  a  heavy  fatigue.  Tlis  servant,  a  quick,  silent  man, 
noticed  the  strangeness  of  liis  manner,  and  like  a  wise 
servant  only  betrayed  the  result  of  his  observation  by  a 
readier  service,  a  quicker  hand,  a  quieter  motion. 

As  Stein nietz  went  to  the  drawing-room  he  glanced 
at  his  watch.  It  was  twenty  minutes  past  seven.  He 
still  had  ten  minutes  to  spare  before  dinner. 

He  opened  the  drawing-room  door.  Etta  was  sitting 
by  the  fire,  alone.  She  glanced  back  over  her  shoulder 
in  a  quick,  hunted  way  which  had  only  become  apparent 
to  Steinmetz  since  her  arrival  at  Petersburg. 

"  Good-evening,"  she  said. 

"  Good-evening,  madame,"  he  answered. 

He  closed  the  door  carefully  behind  him. 


CHAPTER  XX 

AN  OFFER  OF  FRIENDSHIP 

Etta  did  not  move  wlien  Steinmetz  approached,  ex> 
cept,  indeed,  to  piisli  one  foot  farther  out  toward  the 
warmth  of  tlie  wood  fire.  She  certainly  was  very  neatly 
shod.  Steinmetz  was  one  of  her  few  failures.  She  had 
never  got  any  nearer  to  the  man.  Despite  his  gray  hair 
and  bulk}^  person  she  argued  that  he  was  still  a  man, 
and  therefore  an  easy  victim  to  flattery — open  to  the 
influence  of  beauty. 

"I  wonder  why,"  she  said,  looking  into  the  fire,  "  you 
hate  me." 

Steinmetz  looked  down  at  her  witli  his  grim  smile. 
The  mise  en  scene  was  perfect,  from  the  thouglitful 
droop  of  the  head  to  tlie  innocent  display  of  slipper. 

"  I  wonder  why  you  tliink  that  of  me,"  he  replied. 

"One  cannot  help  perceiving  that  wliich  is  obvious." 

"  While  that  Avhich  is  purposely  made  obvious  serves 
to  conceal  that  which  may  exist  behind  it,"  replied  the 
stout  man. 

Etta  paused  to  reflect  over  this.  Was  Steinmetz  going 
to  make  love  to  her  ?  She  was  not  an  inexperienced  girl, 
and  knew  that  there  was  nothing  impossible  or  even  im- 
probable in  the  thought.  She  wondered  wdiat  Karl  Stein- 
metz must  have  been  like  when  he  was  a  young  man. 
He  had  a  deft  way  even  now  of  planting  a  double  en- 
tendre when  he  took  the  trouble.  How  could  she  know 
that  his  manner  was  ahvays  easiest,  his  attitude  always 
politest,  toward  the  women  whom  he  despised.  In  his 
way  this  man  was  a  philosopher.     He  had  a  theory  that 


AN    OFFER    OF    FRIENDSHIP  173 

an  exaggerated  politeness  is  an  insult  to  a  woman's 
intellect. 

"  You  think  I  do  not  care,"  said  the  Princess  Howard 
Alexis. 

"You  think  I  do  not  admire  you,"  replied  Steinmetz 
imperturbably. 

She  looked  up  at  him. 

"  Do  you  not  give  me  every  reason  to  think  so?"  she 
returned,  with  a  toss  of  the  head. 

Slie  was  one  of  those  women — and  there  are  not  a 
few — who  would  quarrel  with  you  if  you  do  not  admire 
them. 

"  Not  intentionally,  princess.  I  am,  as  you  know,  a 
German  of  no  very  subtle  comprehension.  My  position 
in  your  household  appears  to  me  to  be  a  little  above  tiie 
servants,  although  the  prince  is  kind  enough  to  make 
a  friend  of  me  and  his  friends  are  so  good  as  to  do  tlie 
same.  I  do  not  complain.  Far  from  it.  I  am  well 
paid.  I  am  interested  in  my  work.  I  am  more  or  less 
my  own  master.  I  am  very  fond  of  Paul.  You — are 
kind  and  forbearing.  I  do  my  best — in  a  clumsy  way, 
no  doubt — to  spare  you  my  heavy  society.  But  of 
course  I  do  not  presume  to  form  an  opinion  upon  your 
— upon  you." 

"  But  I  want  you  to  form  an  opinion,"  she  said 
petulantly. 

"Then  you  must  know  that  I  could  only  form  one 
which  would  be  pleasing  to  you." 

"I  know  nothing  of  the  sort,"  replied  Etta.  "Of 
course  I  know  that  all  that  you  say  about  position  and 
work  is  mere  irony.  Paul  thinks  there  is  no  one  in  the 
world  like  you." 

Steinmetz  glanced  sharply  down  at  her.  He  had 
never  considered  the  possibility  that  she  might  love 
Paul.  Was  this,  after  all,  jealousy?  lie  had  attributed 
it  to  vanity. 


174  THE     SOWERS 

"And  I  have  no  doubt  lie  is  riglit,"  slie  went  on. 
Suddenly  she  gave  a  little  laugh.  "Don't  you  under- 
stand ?  "  she  said.     "  I  want  to  be  friends." 

She  did  not  look  at  him,  but  sat  with  pouting  lips 
holding  out  her  hand. 

Karl  Steinmetz  had  been  up  to  the  elbows,  as  it  were, 
in  the  diplomacy  of  an  unscrupulous,  grasping  age  ever 
since  his  college  days.  He  had  been  behind  the  scenes 
in  more  than  one  European  crisis,  and  that  which 
goes  on  behind  the  scenes  is  not  always  edifying 
or  conducive  to  a  squeamisliness  of  touch.  He  was 
not  the  man  to  be  mawkishly  afraid  of  soiling  his 
fingers.  But  the  small  white  hand  rather  disconcerted 
him. 

He  took  it,  however,  in  his  great,  warm,  soft  grasp, 
held  it  for  a  moment,  and  relinquished  it. 

"  I  don't  Avant  you  to  address  all  your  conversation 
to  Maggie,  and  to  ignore  me.  Do  you  think  Maggie  so 
very  pretty  ?  " 

There  was  a  twist  beneath  the  gray  mustache  as  he 
answered,  "Is  that  all  the  friendship  you  desire? 
Does  it  extend  no  farther  than  a  passing  wish  to  be 
first  in  petty  rivalries  of  daily  existence  ?  I  am  afraid, 
my  dear  princess,  that  my  friendship  is  a  heavier  matter 
— a  clumsier  thing  than  that." 

"  A  big  thing  not  easily''  moved,"  she  suggested,  look- 
ing up  with  her  dauntless  smile. 

He  shrugged  his  great  shoulders. 

"It  may  be — who  knows?     I  hope  it  is,"  he  answered. 

"The  worst  of  those  big  things  is  that  they  are  some- 
times in  the  way,"  said  Etta  reflectively,  without  look- 
ing at  him. 

"And  yet  the  life  that  is  only  a  conglomeration  of 
trifles  is  a  poor  life  to  look  back  upon." 

"  Meaning  mine  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Your  life  has  not  been  trifling,"  he  said  gravely. 


AN    OFFER    OF    FRIENDSHIP  175 

She  looked  up  at  liiiii,  and  tlien  for  some  moments 
kept  silence  while  she  idly  opened  and  shut  her  fan. 
There  was  in  the  immediate  vicinity  of  Karl  Steinmetz 
a  sort  of  atmosphere  of  sympathy  which  had  the  effect 
of  compelling  confidence.  Even  Etta  was  affected  by 
it.  During  the  silence  recorded  she  was  quelling  a 
sudden  desire  to  say  things  to  this  man  which  she  had 
never  said  to  an}^     She  only  succeeded  in  part. 

"  Do  you  ever  feel  an  unaccountable  sensation  of 
dread,"  she  asked,  with  a  weary  little  laugh  ;  "  a  sort  of 
foreboding:  with  nothincf  definite  to  forebode?" 

"  Unaccountable — no,"  replied  Steinmetz.  "  But  then 
I  am  a  German — and  stout,  which  may  make  a  differ- 
ence.    I  have  no  nerves." 

He  looked  into  the  fire  through  his  benevolent  gold- 
rimmed  spectacles. 

"  Is  it  nerves — or  is  it  Petersburg  ?  "  she  asked  abruptly. 
"  I  think  it  is  Petersburg.     I  hate  Petersburg." 

"  Why  Petersburg  more  than  Moscow  or  Nijni  or — . 
Tver  ?  " 

She  drew  in  a  long,  slow  breath,  looking  him  up  and 
down  the  while  from  the  corners  of  her  eyes. 

"I  do  not  know,"  she  replied  collectedly;  "  I  think  it 
is  damp.  These  houses  are  built  on  reclaimed  land,  I 
believe.     This  was  all  marsh,  was  it  not  ?  " 

He  did  not  answer  her  question,  and  somehow  she 
seemed  to  expect  no  reply.  He  stood  blinking  down 
into  the  fire  while  she  watched  him  furtively  from  the 
corners  of  her  eyes,  her  lips  parched  and  open,  her  face 
quite  white. 

A  few  moments  before  she  had  protested  that  she 
desired  his  friendship.  She  knew  now  that  she  could 
not  brave  his  enmity.  And  the  one  word  "  Tver  "  had 
done  it  all  !  The  mere  mention  of  a  town,  obscure  and 
squalid,  on  the  upper  waters  of  the  mighty  Volga  in 
Mid-Russia  ! 


176  THE     SOWERS 

During  those  few  moments  she  suddenly  came  face  to 
face  witl)  her  position.  What  liad  slie  to  offer  this 
man  ?  Slie  looked  lum  up  and  down — stout,  placid,  and 
impenetrable.  Here  was  no  common  adventurer  seeking 
place — no  coxcomb  seeking  ladies'  favors — no  pauper  to 
be  bought  with  gold.  She  had  no  means  of  ascertain- 
ing how  much  he  knew,  how  much  he  suspected.  She 
liad  to  deal  with  a  man  who  held  the  best  cards  and 
would  not  play  them.  She  could  never  hope  to  find  out 
whether  his  knowledge  and  his  suspicions  were  his  alone 
or  had  been  imparted  to  others.  In  her  walk  through 
life  she  had  jostled  mostly  villains  ;  and  a  villain  is  no 
very  dangerous  foe,  for  he  fights  on  slippery  ground. 
Except  Paul  she  had  never  had  to  do  with  a  man  who 
was  quite  honest,  upright,  and  fearless  ;  and  she  had 
fallen  into  the  common  error  of  thinking  that  all  such 
are  necessarily  simple,  unsuspicious,  and  a  little  stupid. 

She  breathed  hard,  living  through  j^ears  of  anxiet}'-  in 
a  few  moments  of  time,  and  she  could  only  realize  that 
she  was  helpless,  bound  hand  and  foot  in  this  man's 
power. 

It  was  he  who  spoke  first.  In  the  smaller  crises  of 
life  it  is  usually  the  woman  who  takes  this  privilege 
upon  herself  ;  but  the  larger  situations  need  a  man's 
steadier  grasp. 

"  My  dear  lady,"  he  said,  "  if  you  are  content  to  take 
my  friendship  as  it  is,  it  is  yours.  But  I  warn  yon  it  is 
no  showy  drawing-room  article.  There  will  be  no  com- 
pliments, no  pretty  speeches,  no  little  gifts  of  flowers, 
and  such  trumpery  amenities.  It  will  all  be  very  solid 
and  middle-aged,  like  mj^self." 

"  You  think,"  returned  the  lady,  "  that  I  am  fit  for 
nothing  better  than  pretty  speeches  and  compliments 
and  floral  offerings  ?  " 

She  broke  off  with  a  forced  little  laugh,  and  awaited 
his  verdict  with  defiant  eyes  upraised.     He  returned  the 


AN    OFFER    OF    FRIENDSHIP  17Y 

gaze  through  his  placid  spectacles  ;  her  beauty,  in  its 
setting  of  brilliant  dress  and  furniture,  soft  lights, 
flowers,  and  a  thousand  feminine  surroundings,  failed  to 
dazzle  him. 

"  I  do,"  he  said  quietly. 

"  And  yet  you  offer  me  your  friendship  ?  " 

He  bowed  in  acquiescence. 

"Why?"  she  asked. 

"  For  Paul's  sake,  my  dear  lad}'-," 

She  shrugged  her  slioulders  and  turned  away  from 
Lim. 

"  Of  course,"  she  said,  "  it  is  quite  easy  to  be  rude. 
As  it  happens,  it  is  precisely  for  Paul's  sake  that  I  took 
the  trouble  of  speaking  to  you  on  this  matter.  I  do  not 
wish  him  to  be  troubled  with  such  small  domestic 
affairs  ;  and  therefore,  if  we  are  to  live  under  the  same 
roof,  I  shall  deem  it  a  favor  if  you  will,  at  all  events, 
conceal  your  disapproval  of  me." 

He  bowed  gravely  and  kept  silence.  Etta  sat  with  a 
little  patch  of  color  on  either  cheek,  looking  into  the  fire 
until  the  door  was  opened  and  Maggie  came  in. 

Steinmetz  went  toward  her  with  his  grave  smile,  while 
Etta  hid  a  face  which  had  grown  haggard. 

Maggie  glanced  from  one  to  the  other  with  frank 
interest.  The  relationship  between  these  two  had  rather 
puzzled  lier  of  late. 

"  Well,"  said  Steinmetz,  "  and  what  of  St.  Peters- 
burg ?  " 

"  I  am  not  disappointed,"  replied  Maggie.  "  It  is  all 
I  expected  and  more.  I  am  not  blasee  like  Etta.  Every 
thing  interests  me." 

"  We  were  discussing  Petersburg  when  you  came  in," 
said  Steinmetz,  drawing  forward  a  chair.  "  The  prin- 
cess does  not  like  it.     She  complains  of — nerves." 

"Nerves  !  "  exclaimed  Maggie,  turning  to  her  cousin. 
"  I  did  not  suspect  you  of  having  them.'* 
12 


178  THE     SOWEKS 

Etta  smiled,  a  little  wearily. 

"  One  never  knows,"  she  answered,  forcing  herself  to 
be  light,  "  what  one  may  come  to  in  old  age.  I  saw  a 
gray  hair  this  morning.  I  am  nearly  thirty-three,  you 
know.     When  glamour  goes,  nerves  come." 

"  Well,  I  suppose  they  do — especially  in  Russia,  per- 
haps. There  is  a  glamour  about  Russia,  and  I  mean  to 
cultivate  it  rather  than  nerves.  There  is  a  glamour  about 
every  thing — the  broad  streets,  the  Neva,  the  snow,  and 
the  cold.  Especially  the  people.  It  is  always  espe- 
cially the  people,  is  it  not  ?  " 

*'  It  is  the  people,  my  dear  young  lady,  that  lend  inter- 
est to  the  world." 

"Paul  took  me  out  in  a  sleigh  this  morning,"  went  on 
Maggie,  in  her  cheerful  voice  that  knew  no  harm.  "  I 
liked  every  thing — the  policemen  in  their  little  boxes  at 
the  street  corners,  the  officers  in  their  fur  coats,  the 
cabmen,  every-body.  There  is  something  so  mysterious 
about  them  all.  One  can  easily  make  up  stories  about 
every-body  one  meets  in  Petersburg.  It  is  so  eas}"-  to 
think  that  they  are  not  what  they  seem.  Paul,  Etta, 
even  you,  Herr  Steinmetz,  may  not  be  what  3'^ou  seem." 

"  Yes,  that  is  so,"  answered  Steinmetz,  with  a  laugh. 

"  You  may  be  a  Nihilist,"  pursued  Maggie.  "  You 
may  have  bombs  concealed  up  your  sleeves  ;  you  may 
exchange  mj^sterious  passwords  with  people  in  the 
streets  ;  you  may  be  much  less  innocent  than  you 
appear." 

*'  All  that  may  be  so,"  he  admitted.  ^ 

"  You  may  have  a  revolver  in  the  pocket  of  j'^our 
.dress-coat,"  went  on  Maggie,  pointing  to  the  voluminous 
garment  with  her  fan. 

His  hand  went  to  the  pocket  in  question,  and  pro- 
duced exactly  what  she  had  suggested.  He  held  out 
his  hand  with  a  small  silver-mounted  revolver  lying  in 
the  palm  of  it. 


AN    OFFER    OF   FRIENDSHIP  179 

"Even  that,"  ho  said,  "  may  bo  so." 

Maggie  looked  at  it  witli  a  sudden  curiosity,  Iier 
bright  eyes  grave. 

"  Loaded  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Yes." 

"  Tlien  I  will  not  examine  it.  ITow  curious  !  I 
wonder  how  near  to  the  mark  I  may  have  been  in  other 
ways." 

"  I  wonder,"  said  Steinmetz,  looking  at  Etta.  "And 
now  tell  us  some^iing  about  the  princess.  What  do 
3^GU  suspect  her  of  ?  " 

At  this  moment  Paul  came  into  the  room,  distin- 
guished-looking and  grave. 

"Miss  Delatield,"  pursued  Steinmetz,  turning  to  the 
new-comer,  "  is  telling  us  her  suspicions  about  our- 
selves. I  am  already  as  good  as  condemned  to  Siberia. 
She  is  now  about  to  sit  in  judgment  on  the  princess." 

Maggie  laughed. 

"  Herr  Steinmetz  has  pleaded  guilty  to  the  worst 
accusation,"  she  said.  "  On  the  other  counts  I  leave 
him  to  his  own  conscience." 

"Anything  but  that,"  urged  Steinmetz. 

Paul  came  forward,  and  Maggie  rather  obviouslj'- 
avoided  looking  at  him. 

"Tell  us  of  Paul's  crimes  first,"  said  Etta,  rather 
hurriedly.  She  glanced  at  the  clock,  whither  Karl 
Steinmetz's  eyes  had  also  travelled, 

"  Oh,  Paul,"  said  Maggie,  rather  indifferently.  In- 
deed, it  seemed  as  if  her  lightness  of  heart  had  suddenly 
failed  her.  "Well,  perhaps  he  is  deeply  involved  in 
schemes  for  the  resurrection  of  the  Polish  kingdom,  or 
something  of  that  sort," 

"That  sounds  tame,"  put  in  Steinmetz.  "I  think 
you  would  construct  a  better  romance  respecting  the 
princess.  In  books  it  is  always  the  beautiful  princesses 
who  are  most  deeply  d3"ed  in  crime." 


180  THE     SOWERS 

Macfc^ic  opened  her  fan  and  closed  it  again. 

"  Well,"  she  said,  tapping  on  the  arm  of  her  chair 
with  it  ;  "I  give  Etta  a  mysterious  past.  Slie  is  tlie 
sort  of  person  who  would  laugh  and  dance  at  a  ball  with 
the  knowledge  that  there  was  a  mine  beneath  the  floor." 

"  I  do  not  think  I  am,"  said  Etta,  with  a  shudder. 
She  rose  rather  hurriedly,  and  crossed  the  room  with  a 
great  rustle  of  silks. 

"  Stop  her  !  "  she  whispered,  as  she  passed  Steinmetz« 


CHAPTER  XXI 

•      A    SUSPECTED    HOUSE 

The  Countess  Lanovitch  and  Catrina  were  sitting 
together  in  the  too-luxurious  drawing-room  tliat  over- 
looked the  English  Quay  and  the  Neva.  The  double 
windows  were  rigorously  closed,  while  the  inner  panes 
were  covered  with  a  thick  rime.  The  sun  was  just 
setting  over  the  marshes  that  border  the  upper  waters 
of  the  Gulf  of  Finland,  and  lit  up  the  snow-clad  city 
with  a  rosy  glow  which  penetrated  to  the  room  where 
the  two  women  sat. 

Catrina  was  restless,  moving  from  chair  to  chair,  from 
fire-place  to  window,  with  a  lack  of  repose  which  would 
certainly  have  touched  the  nerves  of  a  less  lethargic  per- 
st)n  than  the  countess. 

"  My  dear  child  !  "  that  lady  was  exclaiming  Avith 
lackadaisical  horror,  "  we  cannot  go  to  Thors  yet.  The 
thought  is  too  horrible.  You  never  think  of  my  health. 
Besides,  the  gloom  of  the  everlasting  snow  is  too  pain- 
ful. It  makes  me  think  of  your  poor  mistaken  father, 
who  is  probably  shovelling  it  in  Siberia.  Here,  at  all 
events,  one  can  avoid  the  window — one  need  not  look 
at  it." 

"  The  policy  of  shutting  one's  eyes  is  a  mistake,"  said 

Catrina. 

She  had  risen,  and  was  standing  by  the  window,  her 
stunted  form  being  framed,  as  it  were,  in  a  rosy  glow  of 
pink. 

The  countess  heaved  a  little  sigli  and  gazed  idly  at 
the  fire.     She    did   not    understand    Catrina.     She   was 


182  THE     SOWEKS 

afraid  of  her.  Tliere  was  something  rugged  and  dogged 
which  the  girl  had  inherited  from  her  father — tliat 
SLavonic  love  of  pain  for  its  own  sake — which  makes 
Russian  patriots  and  thinkers  strange,  incomprehensible 
beings. 

"  I  question  it,  Catrina,"  said  the  elder  lady  ;  *•'  but 
perhaps  it  is  a  matter  of  health.  Dr.  Stantovitch  told 
me,  quite  between  ourselves,  that  if  I  had  given  way  to 
m}^  grief  at  the  time  of  the  trial  he  would  not  have  held 
himself  responsible  for  the  consequences." 

"Dr.  Stantovitch,"  said  Catrina,  "is  a  humbug." 

"  My  dear  child  !  "  exclaimed  the  countess,  "  he 
attends  all  the  noble  ladies  of  Petersburg." 

"  Precisely,"  answered  Catrina. 

She  was  woman  enough  to  enter  into  futile  arguments 
with  her  mother,  and  man  enough  to  despise  lierself  for 
doing  it. 

"  Why  do  you  want  to  go  back  to  Thors  so  soon  ?  " 
murmured  the  elder  lady,  with  a  little  sigh  of  despair. 
She  knew  she  was  playing  a  losing  game  very  badly. 
She  was  mentally  shuddering  at  the  recollection  of 
former  sleigh-journeying  from  Tver  to  Thors. 

"  Because  I  am  sure  father  would  like  us  to  be  there 
this  hard  winter." 

"  But  your  father  is  in  Siberia,"  put  in  the  countess, 
which  remark  was  ignored. 

"  Because  if  we  do  not  go  before  the  snow  begins  to 
melt  we  shall  have  to  do  the  journey  in  carriages  over 
bad  roads,  which  is  sure  to  knock  you  up.  Because  our 
place  is  at  Thors,  and  no  one  wants  us  liere.  I  hate 
Petersburg.  It  is  no  use  living  here  unless  one  is  rich 
and  beautiful  and  popular.  We  are  none  of  those  things, 
so  we  are  better  at  Thors." 

"  But  we  have  many  nice  friends  here,  dear.  You 
will  see,  this  afternoon.  I  expect  quite  a  reception.  By 
the  way,  I  hope  Kupfer  has  sent  the  little  cakes.     Your 


A    SUSPECTED    HOUSE  183 

father  used  to  be  so  fond  of  tliem.  I  wonder  if  we 
could  send  liim  a  box  to  Siberia.  He  would  enjoy  tlieni, 
poor  man  !  He  might  give  some  to  the  prison  people, 
and  thus  obtain  a  little  alleviation.  Yes  ;  the  Comte  de 
Cliauxville  said  he  would  come  on  ray  first  reception-day, 
and,  of  course,  Paul  and  his  wife  must  return  my  call. 
They  will  come  to-day.  I  am  anxious  to  see  her.  Tiie^'' 
say  she  is  beautiful  and  dresses  well." 

Catrina's  broad  white  teeth  gleamed  for  a  moment  in 
the  flickering  firelight,  as  she  clenched  them  over  her 
lower  lip. 

.  "  And  therefore  Paul's  happiness  in  life  is  assured," 
she  said,  in  a  hard  voice. 

*'  Of  course.  What  more  could  he  want?"  murmured 
the  countess,  in  blissful  ignorance  of  any  ii'ony. 

Catrina  looked  at  her  mother  with  a  gleam  of  utter 
contempt  in  her  eyes.  That  is  one  of  the  privileges  of 
a  great  love,  whether  it  bring  happiness  or  misery — the 
contempt  for  all  who  have  never  known  it. 

While  the}^  remained  thus  the  sound  of  sleigh-bells  on 
the  quiet  English  Quay  made  itself  heard  through  the 
double  windows.  There  was  a  clang  of  man}'' tones,  and 
the  horses  pulled  up  with  a  jerk.  The  color  left  Catrina's 
face  quite  suddenly,  as  if  wiped  away,  leaving  her 
ghastly.     She  was  going  to  see  Paul  and  his  wife. 

Presently  the  door  opened,  and  Etta  came  into  the 
room  with  the  indomitable  assurance  which  character- 
ized her  movements  and  earned  for  her  a  host  of  fem- 
inine enemies. 

"  Mme.  la  Comtesse,"  she  said,  with  her  most  gracious 
smile,  taking  the  limp  hand  offered  to  her  by  the 
Countess  Lanovitch. 

Catrina  stood  in  the  embrasure  of  the  window,  hating 
her. 

Paul  followed  on  his  wife's  heels,  scarcely  concealing 
his  boredom.     He  was  not  a  society  man.     Catrina  came 


184  THE     SOWERS 

forward  and  exchanged  a  formal  bow  with  Etta,  who 
took  in  lier  plainness  and  the  faults  of  her  dress  at  one 
contemptuous  glance.  She  smiled  with  the  perfect  ])ity 
of  a  good  figure  for  no  figure  at  all.  Paul  was  shaking 
hands  with  the  countess.  When  he  took  Catrina's 
hand  her  lingers  were  icy,  and  twitched  nervously 
within  his  grasp. 

The  countess  was  already  babbling  to  Etta  in  French. 
The  Princess  Howard  Alexis  always  began  by  inform- 
ing Paul's  friends  that  she  knew  no  Russian.  For  a 
moment  Paul  and  Catrina  were  left,  as  it  were,  alone. 
When  the  countess  was  once  fairly  roused  from  her 
chronic  lethargy  her  voice  usually  acquired  a  metallic 
ring  which  dominated  any  other  conversation  that 
might  be  going  on  in   the   room. 

"I  wish  you  happiness,"  said  Catrina,  and  no  one 
lieard  her  but  Paul.  She  did  not  raise  her  eyes  to  his, 
but  looked  vaguel}^  at  his  collar.  Her  voice  was  short 
and  rather  breathless,  as  if  she  had  just  emerged  from 
deep  water. 

"  Thank  you,"  answered  Paul  simply. 

He  turned  and  somewhat  naturally  looked  at  his  wife. 
Catrina's  thoughts  followed  his.  A  man  is  at  a  disad- 
vantage in  the  ])resence  of  the  Avoman  who  loves  him. 
She  usually  sees  through  him— a  marked  difference 
between  masculine  and  feminine  love.  Catrina  looked 
up  sharply  and  canght  his  eyes  resting  on  Etta. 

"  He  does  not  love  her — he  does  not  love  her  !  "  was 
the  thought  that  instantly  leaped  into  her  brain. 

And  if  she  had  said  it  to  him  he  would  have  contra- 
dicted her  flatly  and  honestly,  and  in  vain. 

"  Yes,"  the  countess  was  saying  with  lazy  volubility  ; 
"Paul  is  one  of  our  oldest  friends.  We  are  neighbors 
in  the  country,  j^ou  know.  He  has  always  been  in  and 
out  of  our  house  like  one  of  the  family.  My  poor  hus- 
band was  very  fond  of  him." 


A    SUSPECTED    lie  USE  186 

"  Is  your  husband  dead,  then  ?  "  asked  Etta  in  a  low 
voice,  with  a  strange  liaste. 

"  No  ;  lie  is  only  in  Siberia.  You  liave  perliaps 
heard  of  his  misfortune — Count  Stepan  Lanovitcli." 

Etta  nodded  her  liead  witli  tlie  deepest  synipatliy. 

"  I  feel  for  you,  countess,"  she  said.  "  And  yet  you 
are  so  brave — and  niadenioiselle,"  slie  said,  turning  to 
Catrina.  "  I  hoj^e  we  shall  see  more  of  each  other  in 
Tver." 

Catrina  bowed  jerkily  and  made  no  reply.  Etta 
glanced  at  her  sharply.  Perhaps  she  saw  more  than 
Catrina  knew. 

"I  suppose,"  she  said  to  the  countess,  with  tliat 
inclusive  manner  which  spreads  the  conversation 
out,  "  that  Paul  and  Mile,  de  Lanovitch  were  play- 
mates?" 

The  reply  lay  with  either  of  the  ladies,  but  Catrina 
turned  awa3^ 

"  Yes,"  answered  the  countess  ;  "  but  Catrina  is  only 
twenty-four — ten  years  younger  than  Paul." 

"  Indeed  !  "  with  a  faint,  cutting  surprise. 

Indeed  Etta  looked  younger  than  Catrina.  On  a 
I'age  de  son  coeur,  and  if  the  heart  be  worn  it  transmits 
its  weariness  to  the  face,  where  such  signs  are  ascribed 
to  3^ears.  So  the  little  stab  was  justified  by  Catrina's 
appearance. 

While  the  party  assembled  were  thus  exchanging 
social  amenities,  a  past  master  in  such  commerce  joined 
them  in  the  person  of  Claude  de  Chauxville. 

He  smiled  his  mechanical,  heartless  smile  upon  them 
all,  but  when  lie  bowed  over  Etta's  hand  his  face  was 
grave.  He  expressed  no  surprise  at  seeing  Paul  and 
Etta,  though  his  manner  betokened  that  emotion. 
There  was  no  sign  of  this  meeting  having  been  a  pre- 
arranged matter,  brought  about  by  himself  through  th^ 
easy  and  innocent  instrumentality  of  the  countess. 


186  THE     SOWERS 

"And  you  are  going  to  Tver,  no  doubt?"  he  said 
almost  at  once  to  Etta. 

"  Yes,"  answered  that  lady,  with  a  momentary  hunted 
look  iu  her  e^^es.  It  is  strange  how  an  obscure  ge£)- 
graphical  name  may  force  its  way  into  our  lives,  never, 
to  be  forgotten.  Queen  Mary  of  England  struck  a  note 
of  tlie  human  octave  when  she  protested  that  the  word 
"  Calais  "  was  graven  on  her  heart.  It  seemed  to  Etta 
that  "Tver"  was  written  large  wheresoever  she  turned, 
for  the  conscience  looks  through  a  glass  and  sees  what- 
ever may  be  written  thereon  overspreading  every 
prospect. 

"The  prince,"  continued  De  Chauxville,  turning  to 
Paul,  "  is  a  great  sportsman,  I  am  told — a  mighty  hunter. 
I  Avonder  why  Englishmen  alwa3's  want  to  kill  some- 
thing." 

Paul  smiled,  without  making  an  immediate  answer. 
He  was  not  the  man  to  be  led  into  the  danger  of  repartee 
by  such  as  De  Chauxville. 

"  We  have  a  few  bears  left,"  he  said. 

"You  are  fortunate,"  protested  De  Chauxville.  "I 
shot  one  when  I  was  j^ounger.  I  was  immensely 
afraid,  and  so  was  the  bear.  I  have  a  great  desire  to 
tr}^  again." 

Etta  glanced  at  Paul,  who  returned  De  Chauxville's 
bland  gaze  with  all  the  imperturbabilit}''  of  a  prince. 

The  countess's  cackling  voice  broke  in  at  this  junc- 
ture, as  perhaps  De  Chauxville  had  intended  it  to  do. 

"Then  why  not  come  and  shoot  ours?"  she  said. 
"  We  have  quite  a  number  of  them  in  the  forests  at 
Thors." 

"Ah,  Mme.  la  Comtesse,"  he  ansAvered,  with  out- 
spread, deprecatory  hands,  "but  that  would  be  taking 
too  great  an  advantage  of  your  hospitality  and  j^our 
well-known  kindness." 

He  turned  to  Catrina,  who  received  him  with  a  half- 


A    SUSPECTED    HOUSE  187 

concealed  frown.  The  countess  bridled  and  looked  at 
her  daughter  with  obvious  maternal  meaning,  as  one 
who  was  saying,  "There — you  bungled  your  prince, 
but  I  have  procured  you  a  baron." 

"  The  abuse  of  hospitality  is  the  last  refuge  of  the 
needy,"  continued  De  Chauxville  oracularly.  "  But  my 
temptation  is  strong  ;  shall  I  yield  to  it,  mademoi- 
selle?" 

Catrina  smiled  unwillingly. 

"  I  would  rather  leave  it  to  your  own  conscience," 
she  said.     "But  I  fail  to  see  the  danger  you  anticipate." 

"  Then  I  acccept,  madame,"  said  De  Chauxville,  with 
the  engaging  frankness  which  ever  had  a  false  ring 
in  it. 

If  the  whole  affair  had  been  prearranged  in  Claude 
de  Chauxville's  mind,  it  certainl}^  succeeded  more  fully 
than  is  usually  the  case  with  human  schemes.  If,  on 
the  other  hand,  this  invitation  was  the  result  of  chance. 
Fortune  had  favored  Claude  de  Chauxville  beyond  his 
deserts. 

The  little  scene  had  played  itself  out  before  the  eyes 
of  Paul,  who  did  not  want  it  ;  of  Etta,  who  desired  it  ; 
and  of  Catrina,  who  did  not  exactly  know  what  she 
wanted,  with  the  precision  of  a  stage-play  carefully 
rehearsed. 

Claude  de  Chauxville  had  unscrupulously  made  use 
of  feminine  vanity  with  all  the  skill  that  was  his.  A 
little  glance  toward  Etta,  as  he  accepted  the  invitation, 
conveyed  to  her  the  fact  that  she  was  the  object  of  his 
clever  little  plot ;  that  it  was  in  order  to  be  near  her  that 
he  had  forced  the  Countess  Lanovitch  to  invite  him  to 
Thors  ;  and  Etta,  with  all  her  shrewdness,  was  promptly 
hoodwinked.  Vanity  is  a  handicap  assigned  to  clever 
women  by  Fate,  who  handicaps  us  all  without  appeal. 
De  Chauxville  saw  by  a  little  flicker  of  the  eyelids  that 
he  had  not  missed  his  mark.     He  had  hit  'Etta  where 


188  THE     SOWERS 

his  knowledge  of  her  told  liim  she  Avas  unusually  vulner- 
able. He  had  made  one  ally.  The  countess  he  looked 
uj^on  with  a  wise  contempt.  She  was  easier  game  than 
Etta.  Catrina  he  understood  well  enough.  Her  rugged 
simplicity  had  betra^^ed  her  secret  to  him  before  he  had 
been  five  minutes  in  the  room.  Paul  he  despised  as  a 
man  Licking  finesse  and  esprit — a  truly  French  form  of 
contempt.  For  Frenchmen  have  yet  to  learn  that  such 
qualities  have  remarkably  little  to  do  with  love. 

Claude  de  Chauxville  was  one  of  those  men — alas  ! 
too  many — who  owe  their  success  in  life  almost  entirely 
to  some  feminine  influence  or  another.  Whenever  he 
came  into  direct  opposition  to  men  it  was  his  instinct  to 
retire  from  the  field.  Behind  Paul's  back  he  despised 
him  ;  before  his  face  he  cringed. 

"Then,  perhaps,"  he  said,  when  the  princess  was 
engaged  in  the  usual  farewells  with  the  countess,  and 
Paul  was  moving  toward  the  door — "  then,  perhaps, 
prince,  we  may  meet  again  before  the  spring — if  the 
countess  intends  her  invitation  to  be  taken  seriously." 

"  Yes,"  answered  Paul  ;  "  I  often  shoot  at  Thors." 

"  If  you  do  not  happen  to  come  over,  perhaps  I  may 
be  allowed  to  call  and  pay  my  respects — or  is  the  dis- 
tance too  great?" 

"  You  can  do  it  in  an  hour  and  a  half  with  a  quick 
horse,  if  the  snow  is  good,"  answered  Paul. 

"  Then  I  may  make  it  au  revoir  ?  "  enquired  De  Chaux- 
ville, holding  out  a  frank  hand. 

"  Au  revoir,"  said  Paul,  "  if  3'ou  wish  it." 

And  he  turned  to  say  good-by  to  Catrina. 

As  De  Chauxville  had  arrived  later  than  the  other 
visitors,  it  was  quite  natural  that  he  should  remain  after 
they  had  left,  and  it  may  be  safel}^  presumed  that  he 
took  good  care  to  pin  the  Countess  Lanovitch  down  to 
her  rash  invitation. 

"Why  is  that  man    coming    to    Tver?"  said   Paul, 


A    SUSPECTED    HOUSE  189 

rather  gruffly,  when  Etta  and  lie  Avere  settled  beneath 
the  furs  of  the  sleigb.     "  We  do  not  want  him  there." 

"I  expect,"  replied  Etta  rather  petulantly,  "that  we 
shall  be  so  horribly  dull  that  even  M.  de  Chauxville  will 
be  a  welcome  alleviation." 

Paul  said  nothing.  He  gave  a  little  sign  to  the  driver, 
and  the  horses  leaued  forward  with  a  musical  clash  of 
their  silver  bells. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

THE    SPIDER    AND    THE    FLY 

It  is  to  be  feared  tliat  there  is  a  lamentable  lack  of 
local  color  in  the  present  narrative.  Having  safely 
arrived  at  Petersburg,  we  liave  notliing  to  tell  of  tliat 
romantic  city — no  hints  at  deep-laid  plots,  no  prison, 
nor  tales  of  jail-birds — tales  with  salt  on  them,  bieii 
entendu — the  usual  grain.  We  have  hardly  mentioned 
the  Nevski  Prospekt,  which  street  by  ancient  riglit  must 
needs  figure  in  all  Russian  romance.  We  have  instead 
been  prating  of  drawing-rooms  and  mere  interiors  of 
houses,  which  to-day  are  the  same  all  the  world  over. 
A  Japanese  fan  is  but  a  Japanese  fan,  whether  it  hang 
on  the  wall  of  a  Canadian  drawing-room  or  the  matting 
of  an  Indian  bungalow.  An  Afghan  carpet  is  the  same 
on  any  floor.  It  is  tlie  foot  that  treads  the  carpet  which 
makes  one  to  differ  from  another. 

Whether  it  be  in  Petersburg  or  Pekin,  it  still  must  be 
the  Imman  being  that  lends  the  interest  to  the  still  life 
around  it.  A  truce,  therefore,  to  picturesque  descrip- 
tion— sour  grapes  to  the  present  pen — of  church  and 
fort  and  river,  with  wliich  the  living  persons  of  whom 
we  tell  have  little  or  nothincf  to  do. 

Maggie  was  alone  in  the  great  drawing-room  of  the 
house  at  the  end  of  the  English  Quay — alone  and  grave. 
Some  people,  be  it  noted,  are  gravest  when  alone,  and 
they  are  wise,  for  the  world  has  too  much  gravity  for  us 
to  go  about  it  with  a  long  face,  making  matters  worse. 
Let  each  of  us  be  the  centre  of  his  own  gravity.  Mag' 
gie  Delafield  liad,  perhaps,  tliat  spark  in  tlie  brain  iot 


THE    SPIDER    AND    THE    FLY  191 

which  we  have  but  an  ugly  word.  We  call  it  "  phick." 
And  by  it  we  are  enabled  to  win  a  losing  game--find, 
harder  still,  to  lose  a  losing  game— without  much  noise 
or  plaint. 

Whatever  this  girl's  joys  or  sorrows  may  have  been— 
.and  pray  you,  madam,  remember  that  no  man  ever 
'knows  his  neighbor's  heart  !— she  succeeded  as  well  as 
any  in  concealing  both.  There  are  some  women  who 
tell  one  just  enough  about  themselves  to  prove  that  they 
can  understand  and  sympathize.  Maggie  was  of  these  ; 
but  she  told  no  more. 

She  was  alone  when  Paul  came  into  the  room.  It  was 
a  large  room,  with  more  than  one  fire-place.  Maggie 
was  reading,  and  slie  did  not  look  round.  Paul  stopped 
—warming  himself  by  the  fire  nearest  to  the  door.  He 
was  the  sort  of  man  to  come  into  a  room  without  any 
remark. 

Maggie  looked  up  for  a  moment,  glancing  at  the 
wood  lire.  She  seemed  to  know  for  certain  that  it  was 
Paul. 

"  Have  you  been  out  ?  "  she  asked. 
"  Yes— calling." 

He  came  toward  her,  standing  beside  her  with  his 
hands  clasped  behind  his  back,  looking  into  the  fire. 

"  Socially,"  he  said,  with  a  quiet  humor,  "  I  am  not  a 
success." 

Her  book  dropped  upon  her  knees,  her  two  hands 
crossed  upon  its  pages.  She  stared  at  the  glowing  logs 
as  if  his  thoughts  were  written  there. 
'  "  I  do  not  want  to  give  way,"  he  went  on,  "  to  a  habit 
of  morbid  introspection,  but  socially  I  am  a  horrid 
failure." 

There  was  a  little  smile  on  the  girl's  face,  not  caused 
by  his  grave  humor.  It  would  appear  that  she  was 
smiling  at  something  beyond  that— something  only  visi- 
ble to  her  own  mental  vision. 


192  THE     SOWERS 

*'  Perhaps  you  do  not  try,"  slie  suggested  practically. 

"Oh,  yes,  I  do.  I  try  in  several  languages.  I  have 
no  small-talk." 

"  You  see,"  she  said  graveh^,  ^'yon  are  a  large  man." 

"Does  that  make  an}^  difference  ?"  he  asked  simply. 

She  turned  and  looked  at  him  as  he  towered  by  hei 
side — looked  at  him  with  a  queer  smile. 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  "  I  think  so." 

For  some  moments  they  remained  thus  without  speak- 
ing— in  a  peaceful  silence.  Although  the  room  was  very 
large,  it  Avas  peaceful.  What  is  it,  by  the  wnj,  that 
brings  peace  to  the  atmosphere  of  a  room,  of  a  whole 
house  sometimes  ?  It  can  only  be  something  in  the  in- 
dividuality of  some  person  in  it.  We  talk  glibl}^  of  the 
comfort  of  being  settled — the  peacefulness,  the  restful- 
ness  of  it.  Some  people,  it  vi^ould  appear,  are  alwa^^s 
settled — of  settled  convictions,  settled  mind,  settled  pur- 
pose.    Paul  Howard  Alexis  was  perhaps  such  a  person. 

At  all  events,  the  girl  sitting  in  the  low  chair  by  his 
side  seemed  to  be  under  some  such  influence,  seemed  to 
have  escaped  the  unrest  which  is  said  to  live  in  palaces. 

When  she  spoke  it  was  with  a  quiet  voice,  as  one  hav- 
ing plenty  of  time  and  leisure. 

"  Where  have  you  been  ? "  she  asked  practically. 
Maggie  was  al\vaj''s  practical. 

"  To  the  Lanovitches',  where  we  met  the  Baron  de 
Chauxville." 

"Ah  !" 

"Why— ah?" 

"  Because  I  dislike  the  Baron  de  Chauxville,"  answered 
Maggie  in  her  decisive  way„ 

"  I  am  glad  of  that — because  I  hate  him  !  "  said  Paul. 
"  Have  you  any  reason  for  j^our  dislike  ?  " 

Miss  Delafield  had  a  reason,  but  it  was  not  one  that 
she  could  mention  to  Paul.  So  she  gracefully  skirted 
the  question. 


THE    SPIDER    AND    THE    FLY  193 

*^  He  has  the  same  effect  upon  me  as  snailH,"  she 
explained  airily. 

Then,  as  if  to  salve  her  conscience,  she  gave  the 
reason,  but  disguised,  so  that  he  did  not  recognize   it. 

"  I  have  seen  more  of  M.  de  Chauxville  than  you 
have,"  she  said  gravely.  "  II3  is  one  of  those  men  of 
whom  women  do  see  more.  When  men  are  present  lie 
loses  confidence,  like  a  cur  when  a  thoroughbred  terrier 
is  about,  lie  dislikes  3'ou.  I  should  take  care  to  give 
M.  de  Chauxville  a  wide  berth  if  I  were  j'Ou,  Paul." 

She  had  risen,  after  glancing  at  the  clock.  She  turned 
down  the  page  of  her  book,  and  looking  up  suddenly, 
met  his  ej^es,  for  a  moment  only. 

"  We  are  not  likely  to  drop  into  a  close  friendship," 
said  Paul.  "  But — he  is  coming  to  Thors,  twenty 
miles  from  Osterno." 

There  was  a  momentary  look  of  anxiety  in  the  girl's 
eyes,  which  she  turned  away  to  hide. 

"  I  am  sorry  for  that,"  she  said.  '•  Does  Herr  Stein- 
metz  know  it?  " 

"  Not  yet." 

Maggie  paused  for  a  moment.  She  was  tracing  with 
the  tip  of  her  finger  a  pattern  stamped  on  the  binding 
of  the  book.  It  would  seem  that  she  had  something 
more  to  say.  Then  suddenly  she  went  away  without 
saying  it. 

In  the  meantime  Claude  de  Chauxville  had  gently  led 
the  Countess  Lanovitch  to  invite  him  to  stay  to  dinner. 
He  accepted  the  invitation  with  becoming  reluctance, 
and  returned  to  the  Hotel  de  Berlin,  where  he  was  stay- 
ing, in  order  to  dress.  He  was  fully  alive  to  the 
expediency  of  striking  while  the  iron  is  hot — more 
especially  where  women  are  concerned.  Moreover,  his 
knowledge  of  the  countess  led  him  to  fear  that  she 
would  soon  tire  of  his  society.  This  lady  had  a  lament- 
able facility  for  getting  to  the  bottom  of  her  friends' 
13 


194  THE     SOWERS 

powers  of  entertaiiiineiit  within  a  few  days.  It  was  Do 
Cliauxville's  intention  to  make  secure  liis  invitation 
to  Tliors,  and  then  to  absent  liimself  from  the  countess. 

At  dinner  he  made  himself  vastly  agreeable,  recount- 
ing many  anecdotes  fresh  from  Paris,  which  dul}^  amused 
the  Countess  Lanovitch,  and  somewhat  shocked  Catrina, 
who  was  not  advanced  or  inclined  to  advance. 

After  dinner  the  guest  asked  Mile.  Catrina  to  play. 
He  opened  the  grand  piano  in  the  inner  drawing-room 
with  such  gallantry  and  effusion  that  tlie  sanguine  coun- 
tess, post-prandially  somnolescent  in  her  luxurious  chair, 
began  rehearsing  different  modes  of  mentioning  lier  son- 
in-law,  the  baron. 

"  Yes,"  she  muttered  to  herself,  "  and  Catrina  is  plain 
— terribly  plain." 

Thereupon  she  fell  asleep. 

De  Chauxville  had  a  good  memor}^,  and  was,  more- 
over, a  good  and  capable  liar.  So  Catrina  did  not  find 
ofit  that  he  knew  nothing  whatever  of  music.  He 
watched  the  plain  face  as  the  music  rose  and  fell,  him- 
self impervious  to  its  transcendent  tones.  With  prac- 
tised cunning  he  Avaited  until  Catrina  was  almost  intoxi- 
cated with  music — an  intoxication  to  which  all  great 
musicians  are  liable. 

"  Ah  !  "  he  said.  '^  I  envy  you  your  power.  With 
music  like  that  one  can  almost  imagine  that  life  is  what 
one  would  wish  it  to  be." 

She  did  not  answer,  but  she  wandered  off  into  another 
air — a  slumber  song. 

"The  Schlummerlied,"  said  De  Chauxville  softly. 
*'  It  almost  has  the  power  to  send  a  sorrow  to  sleep." 

This  time  she  answered  him — possibly  because  he  had 
not  looked  at  her. 

"  Such  never  sleep,"  she  said. 

"  Do  you  know  that,  too  ?  "  he  asked,  not  in  a  tone 
that  wanted  reply. 


THE    SPIDEE    AND    THE    FLY  195 

She  made  no  answer. 

"  I  am  sorry,"  he  went  on.  "  For  me  it  is  different. 
I  am  a  man.  I  have  man's  work  to  do.  I  can  occupy 
myself  with  ambition.  At  all  events,  I  have  a  man's 
privilege  of  nursing  revenge." 

He  saw  her  eyes  light  np,  her  breast  heave  with  a 
sudden  sigh.  Something  like  a  smile  wavered  for  a 
moment  beneath  his  waxed  mustache. 

Catrina's  fingers,  supple  and  strong,  struck  in  great 
chords  the  air  of  a  gloomy  march  from  the  half-for- 
gotten muse  of  some  monastic  composer.  While  she 
played,  Claude  de  Chauxville  proceeded  with  his  deli- 
cate touch  to  play  on  the  hidden  chords  of  an  untamed 
heart. 

"  A  man's  privilege,"  he  repeated  musingly. 
"  Need  it  be  such  ?"  she  asked. 
For  the  first  time  his  eyes  met  hers. 
"Not     necessarily,"     he    answered,    and     her    eyes 
dropped  before  his  narrow  gaze. 

He  sat  back  in  his  chair,  content  for  the  moment  with 
the  progress  he  had  made.  He  glanced  at  the  countess. 
He  was  too  experienced  a  man  to  be  tricked.  The 
countess  was  really  asleep.  Her  cap  was  on  one  side, 
her  mouth  open.  A  woman  who  is  pretending  to  sleep 
usually  does  so  in  becoming  attitudes. 

De  Chauxville  did  not  speak  again  for  some  minutes. 
He  sat  bfick  in  his  chair,  leaning  his  forehead  on  his 
hand,  while  he  peeped  through  his  slim  fingers.  He 
could  almost  read  the  girl's  thoughts  as  she  put  them 
into  music. 

"She  does  not  hate  him  yet,"  he  was  reflecting. 
'''  But  she  needs  only  to  see  him  with  Etta  a  few  times 
and  she  will  come  to  it." 

The  girl  played  on,  throwing  all  the  pain  in  her  pas- 
sionate, untamed  heart  into  the  music.  She  knew  noth- 
ing- of  the  world  ;  for  half  of  its  temptations,  its  wiles. 


196  THE    sowEKS 

its  wickednesses  were  closed  to  her  by  the  plain  face 
that  God  had  given  her.  For  beautiful  women  see 
the  worst  side  of  human  nature — they  usually  deal  with 
the  worst  of  men.  Catrina  was  an  easy  tool  in  the 
hands  of  such  as  Claude  de  Chauxville  ;  for  he  had 
dealt  with  women  and  that  which  is  evil  in  women  all 
his  life,  and  the  only  mistakes  he  ever  made  were  those 
characteristic  errors  of  omission  attaching  to  a  persist- 
ent ignorance  of  the  innate  good  in  human  nature.  It 
is  this  same  innate  good  that  upsets  the  calculations  of 
most  villains. 

Absorbed  as  she  was  in  her  great  grief,  Catrina  was 
in  no  mood  to  seek  for  motives — to  split  a  moral  straw. 
She  only  knew  that  this  man  seemed  to  understand  her 
as  no  one  had  ever  understood  her.  She  was  content 
with  the  knowledge  that  he  took  the  trouble  to  express 
and  to  sliow  a  sympathy  of  wliich  tliose  around  her  had 
not  suspected  her  to  be  in  need. 

The  moment  had  been  propitious,  and  Claude  de 
Chauxville,  with  true  Gallic  insight,  had  seized  it.  Her 
heart  was  sore  and  lonely — almost  breaking — and  she 
was  Avithout  the  worldly  w^isdora  which  tells  us  that  such 
hearts  must,  at  all  costs,  be  hidden  from  the  world.  She 
was  without  religious  teaching — quite  without  that 
higher  moral  teaching  which  is  independent  of  creed 
and  conformity,  which  is  only  learnt  at  a  good  mother's 
knee.  Catrina  had  not  had  a  good  mother.  She  had 
had  the  countess — a  weak-minded,  self-indulgent, 
French-novel-reading  woman.  Heaven  protect  our 
children    from    such    mothers  ! 

In  the  solitude  of  her  life  Catrina  Lanovitch  had  con- 
ceived a  great  love — a  passion  such  as  a  few  only  are 
capable  of  attaining,  be  it  for  Aveal  or  woe.  Slie  had 
seen  this  love  ignored — walked  under  foot  by  its  object 
with  a  grave  deliberation  which  took  her  breath  away 
when  she  thought  of  it.     It  was  all  in  all  to  her  ;  to  him 


THE    SPIDER    AND    THE    FLY  197 

it  was  notliing.  Ilcr  philosophy  was  simple.  She 
could  not  sit  still  and  endure.  At  this  lime  it  seemed 
unbearable.  She  must  turn  and  rend  some  one.  She 
did  not  know  whom.  But  some  one  must  suffer.  It 
was  in  this  that  Claude  de  Chauxville  proposed  to 
assist  her. 

"  It  is  preposterous  that  people  should  make  others 
suffer  and  go  unpunislied,"  he  said,  intent  on  his  noble 
purpose. 

Catrina's  eyelids  flickered,  but  she  made  no  answer. 
Tiie  soreness  of  her  lieart  liad  not  taken  the  form  of  a 
definite  revenge  as  yet.  Her  love  for  Paul  was  still 
love,  but  it  was  perilously  near  to  hatred.  She  had  not 
reached  the  point  of  wishing  definitel}^  that  he  should 
suffer,  but  the  sight  of  Etta — beautiful,  self-confident, 
carelessly  possessive  in  respect  to  Paul — had  brought 
her  within  measurable  distance  of  it. 

"  The  arrogance  of  those  who  have  all  that  they  desire 
is  insupportable,"  the  Frenchman  went  on  in  his  favorite, 
non-committing,  epigrammatic  way. 

Catrina — a  second  Eve — glanced  at  him,  and  her 
silence  gave  him  permission  to  go  on. 

''  Some  men  have  a  different  code  of  honor  for  women, 
who  are  helpless." 

Catrina  knew  vaguely  that  unless  a  woman  is  beloved 
by  the  object  of  her  displeasure,  she  cannot  easily  make 
him  suffer. 

She  clenched  her  teeth  over  her  lower  lip.  As 
she  played,  a  new  light  was  dawning  in  her  eyes. 
The  music  was  a  marvel,  but  no  one  in  the  room 
heard  it. 

"  I  would  be  pitiless  to  all  such  men,"  said  De  Chaux- 
ville. "  They  deserve  no  pity,  for  the}^  have  shown 
none.  The  man  who  deceives  a  woman  is  worthy 
of " 

He    never    finislied    the    sentence.     Her   deep,    pas- 


198 


THE     SOWERS 


sionate   eyes   met   his.      Her    liands  came  down  with 

one  final  crash    on  the  chords.     Slie  rose  and  crossed 

the   room. 

"Motlier,"  she  said,  "  shall  I  ring  for  tea  ?  " 

When  the  countess  awoke,  De  Chauxville  was  turning 

over  some  sheets  of  music  at  the  piano. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

A   WINTER    SCENE 

Between  Petersburg  and  tbe  sea  there  are  several 
favorite  islands  more  or  less  assigned  to  the  foreigners 
residing  in  the  Russian  capital.  Here  tbe  English  live, 
and  in  summer  the  familiar  cries  of  the  tennis-lawn  may 
be  heard,  while  in  winter  snow-shoeing,  skating,  and 
tobogganing  hold  merry  sway. 

It  was  here,  namely,  on  the  island  of  Christeffsky,  that 
a  great  ice  fete  was  held  on  the  day  preceding  the 
departure  of  the  Howard  Alexis  household  for  Tver. 
The  fete  was  given  by  one  of  the  foreign  ambassadors — 
a  gentleman  whose  wife  was  accredited  to  the  first  place 
in  Petersburg  society.  It  was  absolutely  necessary, 
Steinmetz  averred,  for  the  whole  Howard  Alexis  party 
to  put  in  an  appearance. 

Tlie  fete  was  supposed  to  begin  at  four  in  the  after- 
noon,  and  by  five  o'clock  all  St.  Petersburg— all,  c'est  k 
dire,  worthy  of  mention  in  that  aristocratic  city — had 
arrived.  One  maybe  sure  CJaude  de  Chauxville  arrived 
earl}^,  in  beautiful  furs  with  a  pair  of  silver-plated  skates 
under  his  arm.  He  was  an  influential  member  of  the 
Cercle  des  Patineurs  in  Paris.  Steinmetz  arrived  soon 
after,  to  look  on,  as  he  told  his  many  friends.  He  was, 
he  averred,  too  stout  to  skate  and  too  heavy  for  the  little 
iron  sleds  on  the  ice-hills. 

"  No,  no  !  "  he  said,  "there  is  nothing  left  for  me  but 
to  watch.  I  shall  watch  De  Chauxville,"  he  added,  turn- 
ing to  that  graceful  skater  with  a  grim  smile.  De 
Chauxville  nodded  and  laughed. 


200  THE     SOWERS 

"You  luivG  been  doing  that  any  time  this  twenty  years, 
men  ami,"  he  said,  as  he  stood  upright  on  his  skates  and 
described  an  easy  little  figure  on  the  outside  edge  back- 
ward. 

"  And  have  always  found  you  on  slippery  ground.'" 

"And  never  a  fall,"  said  De  Chauxville  over  his 
shoulder,  as  he  shot  away  across  the  brilliantly  lighted 
pond. 

It  was  quite  dark.  A  young  moon  was  rising  over 
the  cit}^  throwing  out  in  dark  relief  against  the  sky  a 
hundred  steeples  and  domes.  The  long,  thin  spire  of 
the  Fortress  Church — the  tomb  of  the  Komanolfs — shot 
up  into  the  heavens  like  a  dagger.  Near  at  hand,  a 
thousand  electric  lights  and  colored  lanterns,  cunningl}^ 
swung  on  the  branches  of  the  pines,  made  a  veritable 
fairyland.  The  ceaseless  song  of  the  skates,  on  ice  as 
hard  as  iron,  mingled  with  the  strains  of  a  band  playing 
in  a  kiosk  with  open  windows.  From  tlie  ice-hills  came 
the  swishing  scream  of  the  iron  runners  down  the  terrific 
slope.  The  Russians  are  a  people  of  great  emotions. 
There  is  a  candor  in  their  recognition  of  the  needs  of 
the  senses  which  does  not  obtain  in  our  self-conscious 
nature.  These  strangely  constituted  people  of  the 
North — a  budding  nation,  a  nation  which  shall  some 
day  overrun  the  world — are  easily  intoxicated.  And 
there  is  a  deliberation  about  their  methods  of  seeking 
this  enjoyment  which  appears  at  times  almost  brutal. 
There  is  nothing  more  characteristic  than  the  ice-hill. 

Imagine  a  slope  as  steep  as  a  roof,  paved  with  solid 
blocks  of  ice,  which  are  subsequently  frozen  together 
by  flooding  with  water  ;  imagine  a  sledge  with  steel 
runners  polished  like  a  knife  ;  imagine  a  thousand  lights 
on  either  side  of  this  glittering  path,  and  you  have  some 
idea  of  an  ice-hill.  It  is  certainly  the  strongest  form  of 
excitement  imaginable — next,  perhaps,  to  wiiale-fishing. 

'J'hoix^  is  no  (piestion  of  breathing,  once  the  sledge  h:is 


A    WINTER    SCENE  201 

been  started  by  the  attendant.  Tlie  sensation  is  some- 
what suggestive  of  a  fall  from  a  balloon,  and  yet  one 
goes  to  the  top  again,  as  surely  as  the  drunkard  will 
return  to  his  bottle.  Fox-hunting  is  child's  play  to  it, 
and  yet  grave  men  have  prayed  that  they  might  die  in 
pink. 

Steinmetz  was  standing  at  the  foot  of  the  ice-hill 
when  an  arm  was  slipped  within  his. 

"Will  you  take  me  down?"  asked  Maggie  Delaiield. 

He  turned  and  smiled  at  her — fresh  and  blooming  in 
her  furs. 

"  No,  my  dear  young  lady.  But  thank  you  for  sug- 
gesting it." 

"  Is  it  very  dangerous  ?  " 

"  Very.  But  I  think  you  ought  to  try  it.  It  is  a 
revelation.  It  is  an  epoch  in  your  life.  When  I  was 
a  younger  man  I  used  to  sneak  away  to  an  ice-hill 
where  I  was  not  known,  and  spend  hours  of  the  keenest 
enjoyment.     Where  is  Paul  ?  " 

"  He  has  just  gone  over  there  with  Etta." 

"She  refuses  to  go?" 

"  Yes,"  answered  Maggie. 

Steinmetz  looked  down  at  his  companion  with  his 
smile  of  quiet  resignation. 

"You  tell  me  you  are  afraid  of  mice,"  he  said. 

"  I  hate  mice,"  she  replied.  "  Yes — I  suppose  I  am 
afraid  of  them." 

"  The  princess  is  not  afraid  of  rats — she  is  afraid 
of  ver3^  little,  the  princess — and  yet  she  will  not  go  on 
the  ice-hill.  What  strange  creatures,  mademoiselle  ! 
Come,  let  us  look  for  Paul.  He  is  the  only  man  who 
may  be  trusted  to  take  you  down." 

They  found  Paul  and  Etta  together  in  one  of  the 
brilliantly  lighted  kiosks  where  refreshments  were  being 
served,  all  hot  and  steaming,  by  fur-clad  servants.  It 
was  a  singular  scene.     If  a  coffee-cup  was  left  for  a  few 


202  THE     SOWERS 

moments  on  the  table  by  the  watchful  servitors,  the 
spoon  froze  to  the  saucer.  The  refreshments — bread 
and  butter,  dainty  sandwiches  of  caviare,  of  pate  de  fois 
gras,  of  a  thousand  delicatessen  from  Berlin  and  Peters- 
burg— were  kept  from  freezing  on  hot-water  dishes. 
The  whole  scene  was  typical  of  life  in  the  northern 
cajjital,  where  wealth  wages  a  successful  tight  against 
climate.  Open  fires  burned  brilliantly  in  iron  tripods 
within  the  doorway  of  the  tent,  and  at  intervals  in  the 
gardens.  In  a  large  hall  a  string  band  consoled  those 
whose  years  or  lungs  w^ould  not  permit  of  the  more 
vigorous  out-door  entertainments. 

Steinmetz  made  known  to  Paul  Maggie's  desire  to 
risk  her  life  on  the  ice-hills,  and  gallantly  proposed  to 
take  care  of  the  princess  until  his  return. 

"Then,"  said  Etta  gaylj^,  "j^ou  must  skate.  It  is 
much  too  cold  to  stand  about.  Tliej^  are  going  to 
dance  a  cotillon." 

"  If  it  is  your  command,  princess,  I  obey  with 
alacrity." 

Etta  spoke  rapidly,  looking  round  her  all  the  wdiile 
with  the  bright  enjoyment  which  overspreads  the  faces 
of  some  women  at  almost  any  form  of  entertainment, 
provided  there  be  music,  brilliant  lights,  and  a  crowd  of 
people.  One  cannot  help  wondering  a  little  wdiat  the 
minds  of  such  fair  ladies  must  consist  of,  to  be  thrown 
off  their  balance  by  such  outward  influences.  Etta's 
eyes  gleamed  Avith  excitement.  She  was  beautifully 
dressed  in  furs,  which  adornment  she  was  tall  and 
stately  enough  to  carry  to  full  advantage.  She  held 
her  graceful  head  with  regal  hauteur,  every  inch  a 
princess.  She  was  enjoying  her  keenest  pleasure — a 
social  triumph.  No  whisper  escaped  her,  no  glance, 
no  nudge  of  admiring  or  envious  notice.  On  Stein- 
metz's  arm  she  i)assed  out  of  the  tent  ;  the  toucli  of 
her  hand   on  his  sleeve  reminded  him  of  a  thorough- 


A    WINTER    SCEXE  203 

bred  horse  stepping  on  to  turf,  so  full  of  life,  of  electric 
thrill,  of  excitement  was  it.  But  then,  Karl  Steinmetz 
was  a  cynic.  No  one  else  could  have  thought  of  com- 
paring Etta's  self-complaisant  humor  to  that  of  a  horse 
in  a  racing  paddock. 

Thej^  procured  skates  and  glided  off  hand  in  hand, 
equally  proficient,  equally  practised,  maybe  on  this  same 
lake  ;  for  botli  had  learned  to  skate  in  Russia. 

They  talked  only  of  the  present,  of  the  brilliancy  of 
the  fete,  of  the  music,  of  the  thousand  lights.  Etta  was 
quite  incapable  of  thinking  or  talking  of  any  other  sub- 
ject at  that  moment. 

Steinmetz  distinguished  Claude  de  Chauxville  easily 
enouo-h,  and  avoided  him  with  some  success  for  a 
sliort  time.     But  Do  Chauxville  soon  caught   sight  of 


them. 


'  Here  is  M.  de  Chauxville,"  said  Etta,  with  a  pleased 
ring  in  her  voice.  **  Leave  me  with  him.  I  expect  you 
are  ^ired." 

"  I  am  not  tired,  but  I  am  obedient,"  replied  Stein- 
metz, as  the  Frenchman  came  up  with  his  fur  cap  in  his 
hand,  bowing  gracefully,  Claude  de  Chauxville  usually 
overdid  things.  There  is  something  honest  in  a  clumsy 
bow  which  had  no  place  in  his  courtly  obeisance. 

Although  Steinmetz  continued  to  skate  in  a  leisurely 
way,  he  also  held  to  his  original  intention  of  looking  on. 
He  saw  Paul  and  Maggie  come  back  to  the  edge  of  the 
lake,  accompanied  by  an  English  lady  of  some  impor- 
tance in  Russia,  with  whom  Maggie  presently  went  away 
to  the  concert-room. 

Steinmetz  glided  up  to  Paul,  who  was  lighting  a 
cigarette  at  the  edge  of  the  pond,  where  an  attendant 
stood  by  an  open  wood  fire  with  cigarettes  and  liot 
beverages. 

"  Get  a  pair  of  skates,"  said  the  German.  "  This  ice 
is  marvellous— colossa-a-a-1." 


204  THE     SOWERS 

He  amused  himself  with  describing  figures,  like  a 
huge  grave-minded  bo}^  until  Paul  joined  him. 

"  Where  is  Etta  ?"  asked  the  prince  at  once. 

"  Over  there  with  De  Chauxville." 

Paul  said  nothing  for  a  few  moments.  They  skated 
side  by  side  round  the  lake.  It  was  too  cold  to  stand 
still  even  for  a  minute. 

"I  told  you,"  remarked  Paul  at  length,  "that  tliat 
fellow  is  coming  to  Thors." 

"I  wish  he  would  go  to  the  devil,"  said  Steinmetz. 

"No  doubt  he  will  in  time,"  answered  Paul  care- 
lessly. 

"  Yes  ;  but  not  soon  enough.  I  assure  you,  Paul,  I 
do  not  like  it.  We  are  just  in  that  position  that  the 
least  breath  of  suspicion  will  get  us  into  endless  trouble. 
The  authorities  know  that  Stepan  Lanovitch  has  escaped. 
At  an}^  moment  the  Charity  League  scandal  may  be 
resuscitated.  Wq  do  not  want  fellows  like  De  Chaux- 
ville prowling  about.     I  know  the  man.     He  is  a  d d 

scoundrel  who  would  sell  his  immortal  soul  if  he  could 
get  a  bid  for  it.  What  is  he  coming  to  Thors  for  ? 
He  is  not  a  sportsman  ;  why,  he  would  be  afraid  of  a 
cock  pheasant,  though  he  Avould  be  plucky  enough 
amonir  the  hens.  You  don't  imacjine  he  is  in  love  with 
Catrina,  do  you?" 

"  No,"  said  Paul  sharjdy,  "  I  don't." 

Steinmetz  raised  his  bushy  eyebrows.  Etta  and  De 
Chauxville  skated  past  them  at  that  moment,  laughing 

gayly. 

"  I  have  been  thinking  about  it,"  went  on  Steinmetz, 
^^and  I  have  come  to  the  conclusion  that  our  friend 
hates  you  personall3\  He  has  a  grudge  against  j'ou  of 
some  sort.  Of  course  he  hates  me — cela  va  sans  dire. 
He  has  come  to  Russia  to  watch  us.  That  I  am  con- 
vinced of.  He  has  come  here  bent  on  mischief.  It  ma}" 
be  that  he  is  hard  up  and  is  to  be  bought.     He  is  always 


A    WINTER    SCENE  205 

to  be  bought,  cu  boii  Do  Chauxville,  at  a  price.  Wq 
shall  see." 

Steininelz  paused  and  glanced  at  Paul,  lie  could 
not  tell  him  more.  lie  could  not  tell  him  that  his  wife 
had  sold  the  Charity  League  pai)ers  to  those  who  Avanted 
tliem.  lie  could  not  tell  him  all  that  he  knew  of  Etta'a 
past.  None  of  these  things  could  Karl  Steinmetz,  in 
the  philosophy  that  was  his,  tell  to  the  person  wdiom 
they  most  concerned.  And  who  are  we  that  we  may 
hold  him  wrong?  The  question  of  telling  and  with- 
holding is  not  to  be  dismissed  in  a  few  words.  But  it 
seems  very  certain  that  there  is  too  much  telling,  too 
much  speaking  out,  and  too  little  holding  in,  in  these 
da^^s  of  much  publicity.  There  is  a  school  of  speakers- 
out,  and  Avould  to  Heaven  they  would  learn  to  hold 
their  tongues.  There  is  a  school  for  calling  a  spade  by 
no  other  name,  and  thej^  have  still  to  learn  that  the 
world  is  by  no  means  interested  in  their  clatter  of  shovels. 

The  Psalmist  knew  much  of  which  he  did  not  write, 
and  the  young  men  of  the  modern  school  of  poesy  and 
fiction  know  no  more,  but  they  lack  the  good  taste  of 
tlie  singer  of  old.     That  is  all. 

Karl  Steinmetz  was  a  man  who  formed  his  opinion  on 
the  best  basis — namely,  experience,  and  that  had  taught 
him.  that  a  bold  reticence  does  less  harm  to  one's  neigh- 
bor than  a  weak  volubilit}'. 

Paul  was  an  easy  subject  for  such  treatment,  llis 
own  method  inclined  to  err  on  the  side  of  reticence. 
He  gave  few  confidences  and  asked  none,  as  is  the 
habit  of  Englishmen. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  "  I  do  not  suppose  he  wdll  stay  long 
at  Thors,  and  I  know  that  he  will  not  stay  at  all  at 
Osterno.  Besides,  what  harm  can  he  actually  do  to  us? 
He  cannot  well  go  about  making  enquiries.  To  begin 
with,  he  knows  no  Russian." 

"  I  doubt  that,"  put  in  Sleinmetz. 


206  THE     SOWERS 

"And,  even  if  lie  does,  he  cannot  come  poking  about 
in  OstevnOo  Catrina  will  give  liim  no  information. 
Maggie  hates  him.  You  and  I  know  him.  There 
is  only  the  countess." 

"  Who  will  tell  him  all  she  knows  !  She  would  render 
that  service  to  a  drosky  driver." 

Paul  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

There  was  no  mention  of  Etta.  They  stood  side  by 
side,  both  thinking  of  her,  both  looking  at  her,  as  she 
skated  with  De  Chauxville.  There  lay  the  danger,  and 
the}^  botli  knew  it.  But  slie  was  the  wife  of  one  of 
them  and  their  lips  were  necessarily  sealed. 

"And  it  will  be  permitted,"  Claude  de  Chauxville 
happened  to  be  saying  at  that  moment,  "  that  I  call  and 
pay  my  respects  to  an  exiled  princess  ?  " 

"  There  will  be  difficulties,"  answered  Etta,  in  that 
tone  -which  makes  it  necessary  to  protest  that  difficulties 
are  nothing  under  some  circumstances — the'  which  De 
Chauxville  duly  protested  with  much  fervor. 

"  You  think  that  tw^enty  miles  of  snow  would  deter 
me,"  he  said. 

"  Well,  they  might." 

"  They  might  if— well " 

He  left  the  sentence  unfinished — the  last  resource  of 
the  sneak  and  the  coward  who  wishes  to  reserve  to 
himself  the  letter  of  the  denial  in  the  spirit  of  the 
medjiest  lie. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

HOME 

A  TEARING,  howling  wind  from  the  nortli — from  the 
boundless  snow-clad  plains  of  Russia  that  lie  between 
the  Neva  and  the  Yellow  Sea  ;  a  gray  sk}^  washed  over  as 
with  a  huge  brush  dipped  in  dirty  whitening  ;  and  the 
plains  of  Tver  a  spotless,  dazzling  level  of  snow. 

The  snow  was  falling  softly  and  steadily,  falling,  as  it 
never  falls  in  England,  in  little  more  than  fine  powder, 
with  a  temperature  forty  degrees  below  freezing-point. 
A  drift — constant,  restless,  never  altering — sped  over 
the  level  plain  like  the  dust  on  a  high-road  before  a 
steady  wind.  This  white  scud — a  flying  scud  of  frozen 
water — was  singularly  like  the  scud  that  is  blown  from 
the  crest  of  the  waves  by  a  cyclone  in  the  China  Seas. 
Any  object  that  broke  the  wind — a  stunted  pine,  a 
broken  tree-trunk,  a  Government  road-post — had  at  its 
leeward  side  a  high,  narrow  snow-drift  tailing  off  to  the 
dead  level  of  the  plain.  Where  the  wind  dropped  the 
snow  rose  at  once.  But  these  objects  were  few  and  far 
between.  The  deadly  monotony  of  the  scene — the 
trackless  level,  the  preposterous  dimensions  of  the  plain, 
the  sense  of  distance  that  is  conveyed  only  by  the  steppe 
and  the  great  desert  of  Gobi  when  the  snow  lies  on  it- 
all  tliese  tell  the  same  grim  truth  to  all  who  look  on 
them  :  the  old  truth  that  man  is  but  a  small  thing  and 
his  life  but  as  the  flower  of  the  grass. 

Across  the  plain  of  Tver,  before  the  north  wind,  a 
single  sleigh  was  tearing  as  fast  as  horse  could  lay  hoof 
to  ground — a  sleigh  driven  by  Paul  Howard  Alexis,  and 


208  THE     SOWERS 

the  track  of  it  was  as  a  line  drawn  from  point  to  point 
across  a  map. 

A  striking  feature  of  tlie  winter  of  Northern  Russia 
is  the  glorious  uncertainty  of  its  snowfalls.  At  Tver 
the  Aveather-wise  had  said  : 

"  The  snow  has  not  all  fallen  yet.  More  is  coming. 
It  is  yellow  in  the  sky,  although  March  is  nearly 
gone." 

The  landlord  of  the  hotel  (a  good  enough  resting- 
place  facing  the  broad  Volga)  had  urged  upon  M.  le  Prince 
the  advisabilit}^  of  waiting,  as  is  the  way  of  landlords 
all  the  world  over.  But  Etta  had  shown  a  strange 
restlessness,  a  petulant  desire  to  hurry  forward  at  all 
risks.  She  hated  Tver  ;  the  hotel  was  uncomfortable, 
there  was  an  unhealthy  smell  about  the  place. 

Paul  acceded  readily  enougli  to  her  wishes.  He  rather 
liked  Tver.  In  a  way  he  was  proud  of  this  busy  town 
— a  centre  of  Russian  civilization.  He  would  liave  liked 
Etta  to  be  favorably  impressed  with  it,  as  any  prej- 
udice would  naturally  reflect  upon  Osterno,  140  miles 
across  the  steppe.  But  with  a  characteristic  silent 
patience  he  made  the  necessary  preparations  for  an 
immediate  start. 

The  niglit  express  from  St.  Petersburg  had  deposited 
them  on  the  platform  in  the  early  morning.  Steinmetz 
had  preceded  them.  Closed  sleighs  from  Osterno  were 
awaiting  them.  A  luxurious  breakfast  was  prepared  at 
the  hotel.  Relays  of  horses  were  posted  along  the  road. 
The  journey  to  Osterno  had  been  carefully  planned  and 
arranged  by  Steinmetz — a  king  among  organizers.  Tlie 
sleigh  drive  across  the  steppe  was  to  be  accomplished  in 
ten  hours. 

The  snow  had  begun  to  fall  as  they  clattered  across  the 
floating  bridge  of  Tver.  It  had  fallen  ever  since,  and 
the  afternoon  lowered  gloomily.  In  America  such  visi- 
tations are  called  "  blizzards  ";  here  in  Russia  it  is  merely 


HOME  209 

"  the  snow."  The  freezing  wind  is  taken  as  a  matter  of 
course. 

At  a  distance  of  one  luindred  miles  from  Tver,  tlie 
driver  of  the  sleigh  containing  Etta,  Maggie,  and  Paul 
had  suddenly  rolled  olf  his  perch.  His  hands  were  frost- 
bitten ;  a  piteous  blue  face  peered  out  at  his  master 
through  ice-laden  eyebrows,  mustache,  and  beard.  In  a 
moment  Maggie  was  out  in  the  snow  beside  the  two 
men,  while  Etta  hastily  closed  the  door. 

"He  is  all  right,"  said  Paul  ;  "it  is  only  the  cold. 
Pour  some  brandy  into  his  mouth  while  I  hold  the  ice 
aside.  DonH  take  off  your  gloves.  The  flask  will  stick 
to  your  fingers." 

Maggie  obeyed  with  her  usual  breezy  readiness,  turn- 
ing to  nod  reassurance  to  Etta,  who,  truth  to  tell,  had 
pulled  up  the  rime-covered  windows,  shutting  out  the 
wliole  scene. 

"  He  must  come  inside,"  >:iid  Maggie.  "  We  are  nice 
and  warm  with  all  the  hot  water  cans." 

Paul  looked  rather  dubiously  toward  the  sleigh. 

"  You  can  cai-ry  him,  I  suppose  ?  "  said  the  girl  cheer- 
fully.    "  He  is  not  very  big — he  is  all  fur  coat." 

Etta  looked  rather  disgusted,  but  made  no  objection, 
while  Paul  lifted  the  frozen  man  into  the  seat  he  had 
just  vacated. 

"  When  you  are  cold  I  will  drive,"  cried  Maggie,  as 
Paul  shut  the  door.     "  I  should  love  it." 

Tiius  it  came  about  that  a  single  sleigh  was  speeding 
across  the  plain  of  Tver. 

Paul,  with  the  composure  that  comes  of  a  large  experi- 
ence, gathered  the  reins  in  his  two  hands,  driving  with 
both  and  with  extended  arms,  after  the  manner  of 
Russian  yemschiks.  For  a  man  must  accommodate 
himself  to  circumstance,  and  fingerless  gloves  are  not 
conducive  to  a  finished  style  of  handling  the  ribbons. 

This  driver  knew  tliat  the  next  station  was  twenty 
14 


210  THE     SOWERS 

miles  off  ;  that  at  aii}^  moment  tlie  liorses  miglit  break 
down  or  plunge  into  a  drift.  lie  knew  that  in  the  event 
of  such  emergencies  it  would  be  singularly  eas}^  for  four 
people  to  die  of  cold  within  a  few  miles  of  helji.  But 
he  had  faced  such  possibilities  a  hundred  times  before  in 
this  vast  country,  where  the  standard  price  of  a  luiman 
life  is  no  great  sum.  lie  was  not,  therefore,  disma3'ed, 
but  rather  took  delight  in  battling  with  the  elements, 
as  all  strong  men  should,  and  most  of  them,  thank 
Heaven,  do. 

Moreover  he  battled  successfully,  and  before  the  moon 
was  well  up  drew  rein  outside  the  village  of  Osterno,  to 
accede  at  last  to  the  oft-repeated  prayer  of  the  driver  that 
he  might  return  to  his  task. 

"  It  is  not  meet,"  the  man  had  gruffly  said,  whenever 
a  short  halt  was  made  to  change  horses,  "  that  a  great 
prince  should  drive  a  yemschik." 

"  It  is  meet,"  answered  Paul  simply,  *'  for  one  man  to 
lielp  another." 

Then  this  man  of  deeds  and  not  of  words  clambered 
into  the  sleigh  and  drew  up  the  windows,  hiding  his 
head  as  he  drove  through  his  own  village,  where  every 
man  was  dependent  for  life  and  being  on  his  charity. 

They  were  silent,  for  the  ladies  were  tired  and 
cold. 

"  We  shall  soon  be  there,"  said  Paul  reassuringly. 
But  he  did  not  lower  the  windows  and  look  out,  as  anj^ 
man  might  have  wished  to  do  on  returning  to  the  place 
of  his  birth. 

Maggie  sat  back,  wrapped  in  her  furs.  She  was 
meditating  over  the  events  of  the  daj^,  and  more  par- 
ticularly over  a  certain  skill,  a  quickness  of  touch,  a  deft 
handling  of  stricken  men  which  she  had  noted  far  out 
on  the  snowy  steppe  a  few  liours  earlier.  Paul  Avas  a 
different  man  when  lie  ha<l  to  deal  with  j)ain  and  sick- 
ness ;  he  was  quicker,  brightei',  full  of  confidence  in  him- 


HOME  211 

self.  For  the  great  sjmipatliy  was  his — tliat  love  of 
the  neighbor  whicli  is  thrown  like  a  mantle  over  the 
shoulders  of  some  men,  making  them  different  from 
their  fellows,  securing  to  them  that  love  of  great  and 
small  which,  perchance,  follows  some  Avhen  they  are 
dead  to  that  place  where  a  human  testimony  may  not  be 
all  in  vain. 

At  the  castle  all  was  in  readiness  for  the  prince  and 
princess,  tlieir  departure  from  Tver  having  been  tele- 
graphed. On  the  threshold  of  the  great  house,  before 
she  had  entered  the  magnificent  hall,  Etta's  ej^es 
brightened,  her  fatigue  vanished.  She  played  her  part 
before  the  crowd  of  bowing  servants  with  that  forget- 
fulness  of  mere  bodily  fatigue  which  is  expected  of 
princesses  and  other  great  ladies.  She  swept  up  the 
broad  staircase,  leaning  on  Paul's  arm,  with  a  carriage, 
a  presence,  a  dazzling  wealth  of  beauty,  which  did  not 
fail  to  impress  the  onlookers.  Whatever  Etta  may  have 
failed  to  bring  to  Paul  Howard  Alexis  as  a  wife,  she 
made  him  a  matchless  princess. 

He  led  her  straight  through  the  drawing-room  to  the 
suite  of  rooms  which  were  hers.  These  consisted  of  an 
ante-room,  a  small  drawing-room,  and  her  private 
apartments  beyond. 

Paul  stopped  in  the  drawing-room,  looking  routid  with 
a  simple  satisfaction  in  all  that  had  been  done  by  his 
orders  for  Etta's  comfort. 

"  These,"  he  said,  ^'  are  your  rooms." 

He  was  no  adept  at  turning  a  neat  phrase — at  reeling 
off  a  pretty  honeymoon  welcome.  Perhaps  he  expected 
her  to  express  delight,  to  come  to  him,  possibly,  and 
kiss  him,  as  some  women  would  have  done. 

She  looked  round  critically. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  "  they  are  very  nice." 

She  crossed  the  room  and  drew  aside  the  curtain  that 
covered  the    double-latticed   windows.     The  room  was 


212  THE     SOWERS 

SO  warm  that  there  was  no  rime  on  the  panes.  She  gave 
a  little  shndder,  and  he  went  to  her  side,  putting  liis 
strong,  quiet  arm  around  her. 

Below  tliera,  stretching  away  beneatli  the  brilliant 
moonlight,  lay  the  country  that  was  his  inheritance,  an 
estate  as  large  as  a  large  English  conntj^  Immediately 
beneath  them,  at  the  foot  of  the  great  rock  npon  which 
the  castle  was  built,  nestled  the  village  of  Osterno — 
straggling,  squalid. 

*'  Oh  ! "  she  said  dull}^,"  this  is  Sibe?*ia;  this  is  terrible !" 

It  had  never  presented  itself  to  him  in  tliat  light,  the 
wonderful  stretch  of  country  over  which  they  were 
looking. 

"  It  is  not  so  bad,^*  he  said,  '*  in  the  daylight." 

And  that  was  all  ;  for  he  had  no  persuasive  tongue. 

"  That  is  tl)e  village,"  he  went  on,  after  a  little  pause. 
"Those  are  the  people  wIjo  look  to  us  to  iielp  them  in 
their  fight  against  terrible  odds.  I  hoped — that  you 
would  be  interested  in  them." 

She  looked  down  curiously  at  tlie  little  wooden  huts, 
half-bnried  in  the  snow  ;  the  smoking  cliimne3^s  ;  the 
twinkling,  curtainless  windows. 

"  What  do  you  expect  me  to  do  ?  "  she  asked  in  a 
queer  voice. 

He  looked  at  her  in  a  sort  of  wonderment.  Perhaps 
it  seemed  to  him  that  a  woman  should  have  no  need  to 
ask  sucli  a  question. 

"  It  is  a  long  story,"  he  said  ;  "  I  will  tell  you  about 
it  another  time.     You  are  tired  now,  after  your  journey." 

His  arm  slipped  from  her  waist.  Thej^  stood  side  by 
side.  And  both  were  conscious  of  a  feeling  of  differ- 
ence. They  were  not  the  same  as  they  had  been  ii^ 
London.  The  atmosphere  of  Russia  seemed  to  have 
had  some  subtle  effect  upon  them. 

Etta  turned  and  sat  slowly  down  on  a  low  cliair  before 
the  lire.     She  had  thrown  her  furs  aside,  and  they  lay 


HOME  213 

in  a  luxurious  heap  on  tlie  floor.  The  maids,  liearing 
that  the  prince  and  princess  were  together,  waited 
silently  in  the  next  room  behind  the  closed  door. 

"  I  think  I  had  better  hear  it  now,"  said  Etta. 

"  But  3^ou  are  tired,"  protested  her  husband.  *'  You 
had  better  rest  until  dinner-time." 

"  No  ;  I  am  not  tired." 

He  came  toward  her  and  stood  with  one  elbow  on  the 
mantel-piece,  looking  down  at  her — a  quiet,  strong  man, 
who  had  already  forgotten  his  feat  of  endurance  of  a 
few  hours  earlier. 

"These  people,"  he  said,  "would  die  of  starvation 
and  cold  and  sickness  if  we  did  not  help  them.  It  is 
simpl}^  impossible  for  them  in  the  few  months  that  they 
can  work  the  land  to  cultivate  it  so  as  to  yield  any  more 
than  their  taxes.  They  are  overtaxed,  and  no  one  cares. 
The  army  must  be  kept  up  and  a  huge  Civil  Service,  and 
no  one  cares  what  happens  to  the  peasants.  Some  day 
the  peasants  7nust  turn,  but  not  yet.  It  is  a  question  for 
all  Russian  land-owners  to  face,  and  nobodj^  faces  it.  If 
an}^  one  tries  to  improve  the  condition  of  his  peasants — 
they  were  happier  a  tliousand  times  as  serfs — tlie  bureau- 
crats of  Petersburg  maik  him  down  and  he  is  forced  to 
leave  the  country.  The  whole  fabric  of  this  Govern- 
ment is  rotten,  but  every-one,  except  the  peasants,  would 
suffer  by  its  fall,  and  therefore  it  stands." 

Etta  was  staring  into  the  fire.  It  was  impossible  to 
say  whether  she  heard  with  comprehension  or  not. 
Paul  went  on  : 

'*  There  is  nothing  left,  therefore,  but  to  go  and  do 
good  by  stealth.  I  studied  medicine  with  that  view. 
Steinmetz  has  scraped  and  economized  the  working  of 
the  estate  for  the  same  purpose.  The  Government  will 
not  allow  us  to  have  a  doctor  ;  they  prevent  us  from 
organizing  relief  and  education  on  anything  like  an 
adequate   scale.     They  do  it  all  by  underhand  means. 


214  THE     SOWERS 

Tliey  liave  not  tlie  pluck  to  oppose  us  openly  !  For 
years  we  have  been  doing  what  we  can.  We  liave 
almost  eradicated  cholera.  Tliey  do  not  die  of  starva- 
tion now.  And  they  are  learning — very  slowly,  but 
still  they  are  learning.  We — I — thought  you  might  be 
interested  in  your  people  ;  you  might  want  to  lielp." 

She  gave  a  sliort  little  nod.  There  was  a  suggestion 
of  suspense  in  her  whole  being  and  attitude,  as  if  she 
were  waiting  to  hear  something  which  she  knew  could 
not  be  avoided.  ^ 

"  A  few  years  ago,"  he  went  on,  "  a  gigantic  scheme 
was  set  on  foot.  I  told  you  a  little  about  it — the  Charity 
League." 

Her  lips  moved,  but  no  sound  came  from  them,  so  she 
nodded  a  second  time.  A  tiny  carriage-clock  on  the 
mantel-piece  struck  seven,  and  she  looked  up  in  a  startled 
way,  as  if  the  sound  had  frightened  her.  The  castle 
was  quite  still.  Silence  seemed  to  brood  over  the  old 
walls. 

"That  fell  through,"  he  went  on,  "  as  I  told  you.  It 
was  betrayed.  Ste23an  Lanovitch  was  banished.  He 
has  escaped,  however  ;  Stein nietz  has  seen  him.  He 
succeeded  in  destroying  some  of  the  papers  before  the 
place  was  searched  after  the  robberj^ — one  paper  in  par- 
ticular. If  he  had  not  destroyed  that,  I  should  liave 
been  banished.  I  was  one  of  the  leaders  of  the  Charity 
League.  Steinmetz  and  I  got  the  thing  up.  It  would 
have  been  for  the  happiness  of  millions  of  peasants  if  it 
had  not  been  betra^^ed.  In  time — we  shall  find  out  who 
did  it." 

He  paused.  He  did  not  say  what  he  would  do  when 
he  had  found  out. 

Etta  was  staring  into  the  fire.  Her  lips  were  dry 
She  hardly  seemed  to  be  breathing. 

"It  is  ])ossible,"  lie  went  on  in  his  stiong,  quiet,  inex« 
ornl>le  voice,  "that  Stepan  Lnnovitdi  knows  now." 


HOME  215 

Etta  (lid  not  move.  She  was  starinpj  itito  tlio  firo — 
staring — staring. 

Tlien  she  slowly  fainted,  rolling  from  the  low  chair  to 
the  fur  liearth-rug. 

Paul  picked  her  up  like  a  child  and  carried  her  to  the 
bedroom,  where  the  maids  were  waiting  to  dress  her. 

"  Here,"  he  said,  "  your  mistress  has  fainted  from  tlie 
fatigue  of  tlie  journey." 

And,  witli  liis  practised  medical  knowledge,  he  him- 
self tended  her. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

OSTERNO 

"  Always  gay  ;  always  gay  ! "  laughed  Stcinmetz, 
rubbino:  his  broad  hands  tOG^ether  and  looking^  down 
into  the  face  of  Maggie,  who  was  busy  at  the  breakfast- 
table. 

"Yes,"  answered  the  girl,  glancing  toward  Paul,  lean- 
ing against  the  window  reading  his  letters.  "  Yes, 
always  gay.     Why  not  ?" 

Karl  Stcinmetz  saw  the  glance.  It  was  one  of  the 
little  daily  incidents  that  one  sees  and  half  forgets.  He 
only  half  forgot  it. 

"  Wliy  not,  indeed  ?  "  he  answered.  "And  you  will 
be  glad  to  hear  that  Ivanovitcii  is  as  ready  as  yourself 
this  morning  to  treat  the  matter  as  a  joke.  He  is  none 
the  worse  for  his  freezing,  and  all  tlie  better  for  his  ex- 
perience. You  have  added  another  friend,  my  dear 
young  lady,  to  a  list  which  is,  doubtless,  a  very  long 
one." 

"  He  is  a  nice  man,"  answered  Maggie.  "  How  is  it," 
she  asked,  after  a  little  pause,  "  that  there  are  more  men 
in  the  lower  classes  whom  one  can  call  nice  than  among 
their  betters  ?  " 

Paul  paused  between  two  letters,  hearing  the  question. 
He  looked  up  as  if  interested  in  the  answer,  but  did  not 
join  in  the  conversation. 

"Because  dealing  with  animals  and  witli  nature  is 
more  conducive  to  niceness  than  too  much  trafficking 
with  human  beings,"  replied  Stcinmetz  proni])tlv. 

"  I  suppose  that  is  it,"  said  INIaggie,  lifting  the  tea- 


OSTEKNO 


217 


pot  lid  aiicl  looking  in.  "  At  all  events,  it  is  the  sort  of 
answer  one  might  expect  from  you.  You  are  always 
hard  on  human  nature." 

"  I  take  it  as  I  find  it,"  replied  Steinmetz,  Avith  a  laugh, 
"  but  I  do  not  worry  about  it  like  some  people.  Now, 
Paul  would  like  to  alter  the  course  of  the  world." 

As  he  spoke  he  half  turned  toward  Paul,  as  if  suggest- 
ing that  he  should  give  an  opinion,  and  this  little  action 
hall  the  effect  of  putting  a  stop  to  the  conversation. 
Maggie  had  plenty  to  say  to  Steinmetz,  but  toward  Paul 
her°mental  attitude  was  different.  She  was  probably 
unaware  of  this  little  fact, 

"There,"  she  said,  after  a  pause,  "I  have  obeyed 
Etta's  instructions.  She  does  not  want  us  to  begin,  I 
suppose  ?  " 

"No,"  replied  Paul.  *' She  will  be  down  in  a 
minute." 

"I  hope  the  princess  is  not  overtired," said  Steinmetz, 
with  a  certain  formal  politeness  which  seemed  to  accom- 
pany any  mention  of  Etta's  name. 

"  Not  at  all,  thank  you,"  replied  Etta  herself,  coming 
into  the  room  a*  that  moment.  She  looked  fresh  and 
self-confident.  "  On  the  contrary,  I  am  full  of  energy 
and  eagerness  to  explore  the  castle.  One  naturally  takes 
an  interest  in  one's  baronial  halls." 

With  this  she  walked  slowly  across  to  the  window. 
She  stood  there  looking  out,  and  every  one  in  the  room 
was  watching.  On  looking  for  the  first  time  on  the 
same  view,  a  few  moments  earlier,  Maggie  had  uttered  a 
little  cry  of  surprise,  and  had  then  remained  silent. 
Etta  looked  out  of  the  window  and  said  nothing.  It 
was  a  most  singular  out-look — weird,  uncouth,  prehis- 
toric, as  some  parts  of  the  earth  still  are.  The  castle 
Avas  built  on  the  edge  of  a  perpendicular  cliff.  On  this 
side  it  was  impregnable.  Any  object  dropped  from  the 
breakfast-room  window  would  fall  a  clear  two  hundred 


218  THE     SOWERS 

feet  to  tlie  brawling  Oster  E-iver.  TJie  rock  was  black, 
and  shining  like  the  topmost  crags  of  an  Alpine  moun- 
tain where  snow  and  ice  have  ])olis]ied  the  bare  stone. 
Beyond  and  across  the  river  la}^  the  boundless  steppe — 
a  sheet  of  virgin  snow. 

Etta  stood  looking  over  this  to  the  far  horizon,  where 
the  white  snow  and  the  gray  sky  softly  merged  into  one. 
Her  first  remark  was  characteristic,  as  first  and  last 
remarks  usually  are. 

"  And  as  far  as  you  can  see  is  yours?  "  slie  asked. 

"  Yes,"  answered  Paul  simply,  with  that  calm  which 
only  conies  with  hereditar}^  possession. 

The  observation  attracted  Steinmetz's  attention.  He 
went  to  another  window,  and  looked  across  the  waste 
critically. 

"  Four  times  as  far  as  we  can  see  is  his,"  he  said. 

Etta  looked  out  slowly  and  comprehensively^  absorb- 
ing it  all  like  a  long,  sweet  drink.  There  was  no  hered- 
itary calmness  in  her  sense  of  possession. 

"  And  where  is  Thors  ?  "  she  asked. 

Paul  stretched  out  his  arm,  pointing  with  a  lean, 
steady  finger  : 

"  It  lies  out  there,"  he  answered. 

Another  of  the  little  incidents  that  are  only  half  for- 
gotten. Some  of  the  persons  assembled  in  that  room 
remembered  the  pointing  finger  long  afterward. 

*'It  makes  one  feel  very  small,"  said  Etta,  turning  to 
the  breakfast-table — "at  no  time  a  pleasant  sensation. 
Do  you  know,"  she  said,  after  a  little  pause,  "I  think 
it  probable  that  I  shall  become  very  fond  of  Osterno, 
but  I  wish  it  was  nearer  to  civilization." 

Paul  looked  pleased.  Steinmetz  had  a  queer  expres- 
sion on  his  face.  Maggie  murmuied  something  about 
one's  surroundings  making  but  little  difference  to  one's 
happiness,  and  the  subject  was  wisely  shelved. 

After  breakfast  Steinmetz  withdrew. 


OSTERNO  2 1 9 

"Now,"  said  Paul,  "shall  I  show  you  tho  ohl  ])laoo, 
you  and  Maggie  ?  " 

Etta  signified  her  readiness,  but  Maggie  said  that 
she  had  letters  to  write,  that  Etta  could  show  lier  the 
castle  another  time,  when  the  men  were  out  shooting, 
perhaps. 

"  But,"  said  Etta,  "  I  shall  do  it  horribly  badly.  They 
are  not  my  ancestors,  you  know.  I  shall  attach  the 
stories  to  the  wrong  people,  and  locate  the  ghost  in  the 
wrong  room.  You  will  be  wise  to  take  Paul's  guid- 
ance." 

"No,  thank  you,"  replied  Maggie,  quite  firmly  and 
frankly.  "  I  feel  inclined  to  Avrite  ;  and  the  feeling  is 
rare,  so  I  must  take  advantage  of  it." 

The  girl  looked  at  her  cousin  with  something  in  her 
honest  blue  eyes  that  almost  amounted  to  wonder.  Etta 
was  always  surprising  her.  There  was  a  whole  gamut 
of  feeling,  an  octave  of  callow,  half-formed  girlish 
instincts,  of  which  Etta  seemed  to  be  deprived.  If  she 
bad  ever  had  them,  no  trace  was  left  of  their  whilom 
presence.  At  first  Maggie  had  flatly  refused  to  come  to 
Russia.  When  Paul  pressed  her  to  do  so,  she  accepted 
with  a  sort  of  wonder.  There  was  something  which  she 
did  not  understand. 

The  same  instinct  made  her  refuse  now  to  accompany 
Paul  and  Etta  over  their  new  home.  Again  Etta  pressed 
her,  showing  her  lack  of  some  feeling  which  Maggie 
indefinitely  knew  she  ought  to  have  had.  This  time 
Paul  made  no  sign.  He  added  no  word  to  Etta]s  per- 
suasions, but  stood  gravely  looking  at  his  wife. 

When  the  door  had  closed  behind  them,  Maggie  stood 
for  some  minutes  by  the  window  looking  out  over  the 
snow-clad  plain,  the  rugged,  broken  rocks  beneath  her. 

Then  she  turned  to  the  writing-table.  She  resolutely 
took  pen  and  ])a])er,  but  the  least  thing  seemed  to  dis- 
tract her  attention — the  coronet  o>i  the  note-paper  cost 


220  THE     SOWERS 

her  five  minutes  of  far-off  reflection.  Slie  took  up  the 
pen  again,  and  wrote  "  Dear  Motlier." 

The  room  grew  da  river.  Maggie  lool^ed  up.  The 
snow  had  begun  again.  It  Avas  driving  past  the  window 
with  a  silent,  purposeful  monotony.  The  girl  drew  tlie 
writing-case  toward  her.  She  examined  the  pen  criti- 
cally^ and  dipped  it  into  the  ink.  But  she  added  nothing 
to  the  two  words  already  written. 

Tlie  castle  of  Osterno  is  almost  unique  in  the  particular 
that  one  roof  covers  the  ancient  and  the  modern  build- 
ings. Tlie  vast  reception-rooms,  worthy  of  the  name  of 
state-rooms,  adjoin  the  small  stone-built  apartments  of 
the  fortress  which  Paul's  ancestors  held  against  the 
Tartars.  This  grimmer  side  of  the  building  Paul 
reserved  to  tlio  last  for  reasons  of  his  own,  and  Etta's 
manifest  delight  in  the  grandeur  of  the  more  modern 
apartments  fully  rewarded  him.  Here,  again,  that  side 
of  her  character  manifested  itself  which  has  already 
been  shown.  She  was  dazzled  and  exhilarated  by  the 
splendor  of  it  all,  and  the  immediate  effect  was  a  feeling 
of  affection  toward  the  man  to  whom  this  belonged  ; 
who  was  in  act,  if  not  in  word,  laying  it  at  her 
feet. 

When  they  passed  from  the  lofty  rooms  to  the  dim- 
mer passages  of  the  old  castle  Etta's  spirits  visibly 
dropped,  her  interest  slackened.  He  told  her  of  tragedies 
enacted  in  by-gone  times — such  ancient  tales  of  violent 
death  and  broken  hearts  as  attach  themselves  to  gray 
stone  Avails  and  dungeon  keeps.  She  only  half  listened, 
for  her  mind  was  busy  with  the  splendors  they  had  left 
behind,  with  the  purposes  to  which  such  splendors  could 
be  turned.  And  the  sum  total  of  her  thoughts  was  grati- 
fied vanity. 

Her  bright  presence  avv'akened  the  gloom  of  ages 
within  the  dimly  lit  historic  rooms.  Her  laugh  sounded 
strangely  light  and  frivolous  and  shallow  in  the  silence 


OSTERNO  221 

of  the  asfcs  vvliicli  had  brooded  within  these  walls  since 
the  days  of  Tamerlane.  It  was  perhaps  the  greatest 
tragedy  of  the  Alexis  family,  this  beautiful  tragedy  that 
walked  by  the  side  of  Paul. 

"lam  glad  your  grandfatlier  brought  French  archi- 
tects here  and  built  tlie  mo(^lern  side,"  she  said.  "Tliese 
rooms  are,  of  course,  very  interesting,  but  gloomy — 
horribly  gloomy,  Paul.  There  is  a  smell  of  ghosts  and 
dulness." 

"  All  the  same,  I  like  these  rooms,"  answered  Paul. 
"  Steinmetz  and  I  used  to  live  entirely  on  this  side  of 
the  house.  This  is  tiie  smoking-room.  We  shot  those 
bears,  and  all  the  deer.  That  is  a  wolf's  head.  He 
killed  a  keeper  before  I  finished  him  off." 

Etta  looked  at  her  husband  with  a  curious  little  smile. 
She  sometimes  felt  proud  of  him,  despite  the  ever 
prei-ent  knowledge  that,  int.';iectually  speaking,  she  was 
his  superior.  There  was  something  strong  and  simple 
and  manly  in  a  sort  of  mediaeval  way  that  pleased  her 
in  this  big  husband  of  hers. 

"  And  how  did  you  finish  him  off  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  I  choked  him.  That  bear  knocked  me  down,  but 
Steinmetz  shot  him.  We  were  four  days  out  in  the 
open  after  that  elk.  This  is  a  lynx — a  queer  face — 
rather  like  De  Chauxville  ;  the  dogs  killed  him." 

"  But  why  do  you  not  paper  the  room,"  asked  Etta, 
witli  a  shiver,  "instead  of  this  gloomy  panelling  ?  It  is 
so  mysterious  and  creepy.  Quite  suggestive  of  secret 
passages." 

"There  are  no  secret  passages,"  answered  Paul.  "  But 
there  is  a  room  behind  here.  This  is  the  door.  I  will 
show  it  to  you  presently.  I  have  things  in  there  I  want 
to  show  you.  I  keep  all  my  medicines  and  appliances  in 
there.  It  is  our  secret  surgery  and  office.  In  that  room 
the  Cliarity  League  w\as  organized." 

Etta  turned  away  suddenly  and  went  to  the  narrow 


222  THE     SOWERS 

window,  where  she  sat  on  a  low  window-seat,  looking 
down  into  the  snow-clad  depths. 

"  I  did  not  know  you  were  a  doctor,"  she  said. 

*'  I  doctor  the  peasants,"  replied  Paul,  "  in  a  rougli- 
and  -ready  way.  I  took  my  degree  on  purpose.  But,  of 
course,  they  do  not  know  that  it  is  I  ;  tliey  think  I  am 
a  doctor  from  Moscow.  I  put  on  an  old  coat,  and  wear 
a  scarf,  so  that  tliey  cannot  see  my  face.  I  only  go  to 
them  at  night.  It  would  never  do  for  the  Government 
to  know  that  we  attempt  to  do  good  to  the  peasants. 
We  have  to  keep  it  a  secret  even  from  the  peo^jile  them- 
selves. And  they  hate  us.  They  groan  and  hoot 
when  we  drive  through  the  village.  But  they  never 
attempt  to  do  us  any  harm  ;  they  are  too  much  afraid 
of  us." 

When  Etta  rose  and  came  toward  liini  her  face  was 
colorless. 

"  Let  me  see  this  room,"  she  said. 

He  opened  the  door  and  followed  her  into  the  apart- 
ment, which  has  already  been  described.  Here  he  lold 
further  somewhat  bald  details  of  the  work  he  had 
attempted  to  do.  It  is  to  be  feared  that  he  made  neither 
an  interesting  nor  a  romantic  story  of  it.  There  were 
too  many  details — too  much  statistic,  and  no  thrilling 
realism  whatever.  The  experiences  of  a  youthful  curate 
in  Bethnal  Green  would  have  made  high  tragedy  beside 
the  tale  that  this  man  told  his  wife  of  the  land  upon 
which  God  has  assuredly  laid  His  curse — Aceldama,  the 
field  of  blood. 

Etta  listened,  and  despite  herself  she  became  inter- 
ested. She  was  sitting  in  a  chair  usually  occupied  by 
Steinmetz.  Tliere  was  a  faint  aroma  of  tobacco-smoke. 
The  atmosphere  of  the  room  was  manly  and  energetic. 

Paul  showed  lier  his  simple  stores  of  medicine — tlie 
old  coat  saturated  with  disinfectants  which  had  become 
the  recognized  outward  sign  of  the  Moscow  doctor. 


OSTERNO  223 

"And  do  other  people,  otlier  noblemen,  try  to  do  this 
sort  of  thincr  too  ?"  asked  Etta  at  leno-th. 

"  Catrina  Lanovitch  does,"  replied  Paul. 

"  AVhat  ?     The  girl  with  the  hair  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  answered  Paul.  Ho  had  never  noticed 
Oatrina's  hair.  Etta's  appraising  eye  had  seen  more 
in  one  second  tlian  Paul  had  perceived  in  twenty 
years. 

"  Yes,"  he  answered.  "  But,  of  course,  she  is  handi- 
capped." 

"  By  her  appearance  ?  " 

"No;  by  her  circumstances.  Her  name  is  sufficient 
to  handicap  her  every  moment  in  this  country.  But 
she  does  a  great  deal.  She — she  found  me  out,  confound 
her  ! " 

Etta  Iiad  risen  ;  she  was  looking  curiousl}^  at  the 
cupboard  where  Paul's  infected  clothes  w^ere  hanging. 
He  had  forbidden  her  to  go  near  it.  She  turned  and 
looked  at  him. 

"Found  3^ou  out  !  How  ?  "  slio  asked,  with  a  queer 
smile. 

"  Saw  through  my  disguise." 

"  Yes— she  would  do  that !  "  said  Elta  aloud  to  her- 
self. 

"  What  is  this  door  ?"  she  asked,  after  a  pause. 

"It  leads  to  an  inner  room,"  replied  Paul,  "  where 
Steinmetz  usually  works." 

He  passed  in  front  of  her  and  opened  the  doo]-.  As 
he  was  doing  so  Etta  went  on  in  the  train  of  her 
thoughts  : 

"  So  Catrina  knows  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"And  no  one  else  ?" 

Paul  made  no  answer  ;  for  he  had  passed  on  into  the 
smaller  room,  where  Steinmetz  was  seated  at  a  writing- 
table. 


224  THE    SOWERS 

"  Except,  of  course,  Herr  Steinmetz  ?  "  Etta  went  on 
interrogatively. 

"  Madame,"  said  the  German,  looking  up  with  bis 
pleasant  smile,  "  I  know  eDery  thing.'''' 

And  he  went  on  writing. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

BLOODHOUNDS 

The  tabic  d'hote  of  tlie  Hotel  de  Moscou  at  Tver  had 
just  begun.  The  soup  liad  been  removed  ;  the  diners 
were  engaged  in  igniting  their  first  cigarette  at  the 
candles  placed  between  each  pair  of  them  for  that  pur- 
pose. By  nature  the  modern  Russian  is  a  dignified  and 
somewhat  reserved  gentleman.  By  circumstance  he  has 
been  schooled  into  a  state  of  guarded  unsociabilit}^  If 
there  is  a  seat  at  a  public  table  coiiveniently  removed 
from  those  occupied  by  earlier  arrivals  the  new-comer 
invariably  takes  it.  In  Russia  one  converses — as  in 
Scotland  one  jokes — witli  difficult3^ 

A  Russian  table  d'hote  is  therefore  any  thing  but 
hilarious  in  its  tendency.  A  certain  number  of  grave- 
faced  gentlemen  and  a  few  broad-jowled  ladies  are 
visibly  constrained  by  the  force  of  circumstance  to  dine 
at  the  same  table  and  hour,  et  voila  tout.  There  is  no 
pretence  that  any  more  sociable  and  neighborly  motive 
has  brought  them  together.  Indeed,  they  each  suspect 
the  other  of  being  a  German,  or  a  Nihilist,  or,  worse 
still,  a  Government  servant.  They  therefore  sit  as  far 
apart  as  possible,  and  smoke  cigarettes  between  and 
during  the  courses  with  that  self-centred  absorption 
which  would  be  rude,  if  it  were  not  entirely  satisfactory, 
to  the  avei-age  Briton.  Tlie  ladies,  of  course,  have  the 
same  easy  method  of  showing  a  desire  for  silence  and 
reflection  in  a  country  where  nurses  carrying  infants 
usually  smoke  in  the  streets,  and  where  a  dainty  confec- 
tioner's assistant  places  her  cigarette  between  her  lips 
15 


226  THE     SOWERS 

m  order  to  leave  her  hands  free  for  the  service  of  her 
customers. 

The  table  d'hote  of  the  Hotel  de  Moscou  at  Tver  was 
no  exception  to  the  general  rule.  In  Russia,  hy  the 
way,  tliere  are  no  exceptions  to  general  rules.  The 
personal  liabits  of  the  native  of  Cronstadt  differ  in  no 
way  from  those  of  the  Czar's  subject  living  in  Petro» 
pavlovsk,  eight  thousand  miles  awa3^ 

Around  the  long  table  of  the  host  Avere  seated,  at 
respectable  intervals,  a  dozen  or  more  gentlemen,  Avho 
gazed  stolidly  at  each  other  from  time  to  time,  while 
the  host  himself  smiled  broadly  upon  them  all  from  that 
end  of  the  room  where  the  lift  and  tlie  smell  of  cooking 
exercise  their  calling — the  one  to  spoil  the  appetite,  the 
other  to  pander  to  it  Avhen  spoilt. 

Of  these  dozen  gentlemen  we  have  only  to  deal  Avith 
one — a  man  of  broad,  high  forehead,  of  colorless  e^'es, 
of  a  mask-like  face,  who  consumed  what  was  put  before 
him  with  as  little  noise  as  possible.  Known  in  Paris  as 
*'Ce  bon  Vassili,"  this  traveller.  But  in  Paris  one  does 
not  always  use  the  Avord  bon  in  its  English  sense  of 
"  good." 

M.  Vassili  Avas  evidently  desirous  of  attracting  as 
little  attention  as  circumstances  Avould  alloAV.  He  Avas 
obviously  doing  his  best  to  look  like  one  Avho  travelled 
in  tlie  interest  of  braid  or  buttons.  Moreover,  Avhen 
Claude  de  Chauxville  entered  the  table  d'hote  room,  he 
concealed  whatever  surprise  he  may  have  felt  behind  a 
cloud  of  cigarette  smoke.  Through  the  same  blue  haze 
he  met  the  Frenchman's  e3^e,  a  moment  later,  Avithout 
the  faintest  tAvinkle  of  recognition. 

These  two  worthies  Avent  through  the  Aveird  courses 
])rovided  l)y  a  cook  professing  a  knoAvledge  of  French 
cuisine  Avithout  taking  any  compromising  notice  of  each 
other.  AVhen  the  meal  Avas  over  Vassili  inscribed  the 
number  of  his  bedroom  in  large  ligures  on  the  label  of 


BLOODHOUNDS  227 

his  bottle  of  St.  Eniilion — after  tlie  manner  of  wise 
commercial-travellers  in  continental  hotels.  He  subse- 
quently turned  the  bottle  round  so  that  Claude  de 
Chauxville  could  scarcely  fail  to  read  the  number,  and 
with  a  vague  and  general  bow  he  left  the  room. 

In  his  apartment  the  genial  Vassili  threw  more 
wood  into  the  stove,  diew  forward  the  two  regulation 
arm-chairs,  and  lighted  all  the  candles  provided.  He 
then  rang  the  bell  and  ordered  liqueurs.  There  was 
evidently  something  in  the  nature  of  an  entertainment 
about  to  take  place  in  apartment  No.  44  of  the  Hotel 
de  Moscou. 

Before  long  a  discreet  knock  announced  the  arrival 
of  the  expected  visitor. 

"Entrez  !"  cried  Vassili  ;  and  De  Chauxville  stood 
before  him,  witli  a  smile  which  in  French  is  called  crane. 

"A  pleasure,"  said  Vassili,  behind  his  wooden  face, 
"that  I  did  not  anticipate  in  Tver." 

"And  consequently  one  that  carries  its  own  mitiga- 
tion. An  unanticipated  pleasure,  mon  ami,  is  always 
inopportune.  I  make  no  doubt  that  you  were  sorry  to 
see  me." 

"  On  the  contrary.     AVill  you  sit  ?  " 

"  I  can  Jiardly  believe,"  went  on  De  Chauxville,  tak- 
ing the  proffered  chair,  "that  my  appearance  was  oppor- 
tune— on  the  priuciple,  ha  !  ha  !  that  a  flower  growing 
out  of  place  is  a  weed.  Gentlemen  of  the— eh— Home 
Office  prefer,  I  know,  to  travel  quietly  !  "  He  spread 
out  his  expressive  hands  as  if  smoothing  the  path  of 
i\[.  Vassili  through  this  stony  world.  "Incognito,"  he 
added  guilelessly. 

"  One  does  not  publish  one's  name  from  the  house- 
tops," replied  the  Russian,  with  a  glimmer  of  pride  in 
his  eyes,  "especially  if  it  happen  to  be  not  quite 
obscure  ;  but  between  friends,  my  dear  baron— between 
friends." 


228  THE     SOWERS 

*'  Yes.  Tlieii  what  are  you  doing  in  Tver  ?  "  enquired 
Do  Chauxville,  witli  engaging  frankness. 

"All,  tliat  is  a  long  storj^  But  I  will  tell  you — never 
fear — I  will  tell  you  on  the  usual  terms." 

"  Viz  ?  "  enquired  the  Frenchman,  lighting  a  cigarette, 

Yassili  accepted  the  match  with  a  bow,  and  did  like- 
wise.  He  blew  a  guileless  cloud  of  smoke  toward  the 
dingy  ceiling. 

"  Exchange,  my  dear  baron,  exchange." 

"  Oh,  certainly,"  replied  De  Chauxville,  who  knew 
that  Vassili  Avas  in  all  probability  fully  informed  as  to 
his  movements  past  and  prospective.  "  I  am  going  to 
visit  some  old  friends  in  this  Government — the  Lano- 
vitches,  at  Thors." 

"  Ah  !  " 

"  You  know  them  ?  " 

Vassili  raised  his  shoulders  and  made  a  little  gesture 
with  his  cigarette,  as  much  as  to  say,  "  Why  ask  ?  " 

De  Chauxville  looked  at  his  companion  keenly.  lie 
was  wondering  whether  this  man  knew  that  he — Claude 
de  Chauxville — loved  Etta  Howard  Alexis,  and  conse- 
quently hated  her  husband.  He  was  wondering  how 
much  or  how  little  this  impenetrable  individual  knew 
and  suspected. 

"I  have  always  said,"  observed  Vassili  suddenly, 
"that  for  unmitigated  impertinence  give  me  a  diplo- 
matist." 

"  Ah  !     And  what  would  you  desire  that  I  should,  for 
the  same  commodity,  give  you  now  ?  " 
"  A  woman." 

There  was  a  short  silence  in  the  room  wdiile  these  two 
birds  of  a  feather  reflected. 

Suddenly  Vassili  tapped  himself  on  the  chest  with  his 
forefinger. 

"It  was  I,"  he  said,  "  who  crushed  that  very  danger- 
ous movement — tlie  Charity  League." 


BLOODHOUNDS  229 

"  I  know  it." 

"  A  luovcmeiit,  ni}^  dear  Imron,  to  educate  the  moujil<, 
if  3^011  please.  To  feed  him  and  clothe  him,  and  teach 
liim — to  be  discontented  with  his  lot.  To  raise  him  up 
and  make  a  man  of  him.  Pah  !  He  is  a  beast.  Let 
him  be  treated  as  such.  Let  him  work.  If  he  will  not 
work,  let  him  starve  and  die." 

"  The  man  who  cannot  contribute  toward  the  support 
of  those  above  him  in  life  is  superfluous,"  said  De 
Chauxville  glibly. 

"  Precisely.  ISTow,  my  dear  baron,  listen  to  me  !  " 
Tiie  genial  Vassili  leaned  forward  and  tapped  with  one 
finger  on  the  knee  of  De  Chauxville,  as  if  knocking  at 
the  door  of  his  attention. 

"  I  am  all  ears,  mon  bon  monsieur,"  replied  the  French- 
man, rather  coldly.  He  had  just  been  reflecting  that, 
after  all,  he  did  not  want  any  favor  from  Vassili  for  the 
moment,  and  the  manner  of  the  latter  was  verging  on 
the  familiar. 

"  The  woman — who— sold— me— the  Charity  League 
papers  dined  at  my  house  in  Paris — a  fortnight  ago," 
said  Vassili,  with  a  staccato  tap  on  his  companion's  knee 
by  way  of  emphasis  to  each  word. 

"Then,  my  friend,  I  cannot — congratulate — you— on 
the  societ}^ — in — which  you  move,"  replied  De  Chaux- 
ville, mimicking  his  manner. 

"  Bah  !     She  was  a  princess  !  " 

"  A  princess  ?  " 

"  Yes,  of  your  acquaintance,  M.  le  Baron  !  And  she 
came  to  my  house  with  her — eh — husband — the  Prince 
Paul  Howard  Alexis." 

This  was  news  indeed.  De  Chauxville  leaned  back 
and  passed  his  slim  white  hand  across  his  brow  with  a 
slow  pressure,  as  if  wiping  some  writing  from  a  slate — 
as  if  his  forehead  bore  the  writing  of  his  thouglits  and 
he  was  wiping  it  away.     And  the  tlioughts  he  tiius  con- 


230  THE     SOWERS 

cealed — who  can  count  them?  For  tliouglits  are  the 
quickest  and  tlie  longest  and  the  saddest  things  of  this 
life.  The  first  thought  was  that  if  he  had  known  this 
three  months  earlier  he  could  have  made  Etta  marry 
him.  And  that  thought  had  a  thousand  branches. 
With  Etta  for  his  wife  he  might  have  been  a  different 
man.  One  can  never  tell  what  the  effect  of  an  acquired 
desire  may  be.  One  can  only  judge  by  analog}^,  and  it 
would  seem  that  it  is  a  frustrated  desire  that  makes  the 
majority  of  villains. 

But  the  news  coming,  thus  too  late,  only  served  an 
evil  purpose.  For  in  that  flash  of  thought  Claude  de 
Ciiauxville  saw  Paul's  secrets  given  to  him  ;  Paul's 
wealth  meted  out  to  him  ;  Paul  in  exile  ;  Paul  dead  in 
Siberia,  where  death  comes  easily  ;  Paul's  widow  Claude 
de  Chauxville's  wife.  He  wiped  all  the  thoughts  away, 
and  showed  to  Vassili  a  face  tliat  was  as  composed  and 
impertinent  as  usual. 

"You  said  '  her— eh— husband,' "  he  observed. 
"Why?  Why  did  you  add  that  little  'eh,'  my 
friend?" 

Vassili  rose  and  walked  to  the  door  that  led  through 
into  his  bedroom  from  the  salon  in  which  they  were 
sitting.  It  was  possible  to  enter  the  bedroom  from 
another  door  and  overhear  any  conversation  that  might 
be  passing  in  the  sitting-room.  The  investigation  was 
apparently  satisfactory,  for  the  Russian  came  back. 
But  he  did  not  sit  down.  Instead,  he  stood  leaning 
against  the  tall  china  stove. 

"  Needless  to  tell  you,"  he  observed,  "  the  antece 
dents  of  the — princess." 

"  Quite  needless." 

"Married  seven  years  ago  to  Charles  Sydney  Bam- 
borough,"  promptly  giving  the  unnecessary  information 
which  was  not  wanted. 

De  Chauxville  nodded. 


BLOODHOUNDS  231 

"  Where  is  Sydney  Bamborougli  ? "  asked  Vassili, 
witli  his  mask-like  smile. 

"  Dead,"    replied  the  other  quietl3^ 

"Prove  it." 

De  Cliauxville  looked  up  sharply.  The  cigarette 
dropped  from  his  fingers  to  the  floor.  His  face  was 
yellow  and  drawn,  with  a  singular  tremble  of  the  lips, 
which  were  twisted  to  one  side. 

"  Good  God  !  "  he  whispered  hoarsely. 

There  was  only  one  thought  in  his  mind — a  sudden 
wild  desire  to  rise  up  and  stand  by  Etta  against  the 
whole  world.  Verily  we  cannot  tell  what  love  may 
make  of  us,  whither  it  may  lead  us.  We  only  know 
that  it  never  leaves  us  as  it  found  us. 

Then,  leaning  quietly  against  the  stove,  Vassili  stated 
his  case. 

"  Rather  more  than  a  year  ago,"  he  said,  ''  I  received 
an  offer  of  the  papers  connected  with  a  great  scheme  in 
this  countr}^  After  certain  enquiries  had  been  made  I 
accepted  the  offer.  I  paid  a  fabulous  price  for  the 
papers.  They  were  brought  to  me  by  a  lady  wearing  a 
thick  veil — a  lady  I  had  never  seen  before.  I  asked  no 
questions,  and  paid  her  the  money.  It  subsequently 
transpired  that  the  papers  had  been  stolen,  as  you  per- 
haps know,  from  the  house  of  Count  Stepan  Lanovitch — 
the  house  to  which  you  happen  to  be  going — at  Thors. 
Well,  that  is  all  ancient  histor3\  It  is  to  be  supposed 
that  the  papers  were  stolen  by  Sydney  Bamborougli, 
who  brought  them  here — probably  to  this  hotel,  where 
his  wife  was  staying.  He  handed  her  the  papers,  and 
she  coijveyed  them  to  me  in  Paris.  But  before  she 
reached  Petersburg  they  would  have  been  missed  by 
Stepan  Lanovitch,  who  would  naturally  suspect  the  man 
who  had  been  staj^ing  in  his  house,  Bamborough — a  man 
with  a  doubtful  reputation  in  the  di})lomatic  world,  a 
professed  doer  of  dirty  jobs.     Foreseeing  this,  and  know- 


232  THE     SOWERS 

ing  tliat  the  League  was  a  big  thing,  wit])  a  few  violent 
members  on  its  books,  Sydney  Bumborough  did  not 
attempt  to  leave  Russia  by  the  western  route.  Ho 
probably  decided  to  go  through  Nijni,  down  the  Volga, 
across  the  Caspian,  and  so  on  to  Persia  and  India.  You 
follow  me?" 

"Perfectly  !  "  answered  De  Chauxville  coldly. 

"  I  have  been  here  a  week,"  went  on  the  Russian  spy, 
*'  making  enquiries.  I  have  w^orked  the  whole  aifair  out, 
link  by  link,  till  the  evening  when  the  husband  and  wife 
parted.  She  went  w^est  with  the  papers.  Where  did 
he  go  ?  " 

De  Chauxville  picked  up  the  cigarette,  looked  at  it 
curiousl}^,  as  at  a  relic — the  relic  of  the  moment  of 
strongest  emotion  through  which  he  had  ever  ])assed— 
and  threw  it  into  the  ash-tray.  He  did  not  speak,  and 
after  a  moment  Yassili  went  on,  stating  his  case  with 
lawyer-like  clearness. 

"  A  body  was  found  on  the  steppe,"  he  said  ;  "  the 
body  of  a  middle-aged  man  dressed  as  a  small  com- 
mercial traveller  would  dress.  He  had  a  little  mojiey  in 
his  pocket,  but  nothing  to  identify  him.  He  was  buried 
here  in  Tver  by  the  police,  who  received  their  informa- 
tion by  an  anonymous  post-card  posted  in  Tver.  The 
person  who  had  found  the  body  did  not  want  to  be 
implicated  in  any  enquiry.  Now,  who  found  the  body? 
Who  was  the  dead  man  ?  Mrs.  Sydney  Bamborough 
has  assumed  that  the  dead  man  was  her  husband  ;  on 
the  strength  of  that  assumption  she  has  become  a 
princess.  A  frail  foundation  upon  which  to  build  up 
her  fortunes,  eh  ?  " 

"  How  did  she  know  that  the  body  had  been  found  ?" 
asked  De  Chauxville,  perceiving  the  weak  point  in  his 
companion's  chain  of  argument. 

"  It  was  reported  shortl}^  in  the  local  newspapers," 
replied  Vassili,  "  and  repeated  in  one  or  two  continental 


BLOODHOUNDS  233 

journals,  as  the  police  were  of  opinion  tliat  the  man 
was  a  foreigner.  Any  one  watcbinii^  the  newspapers 
Avoiikl  see  it — otherwise  the  incident  niii;lit  pass  un- 
observed." 

"And  you  tliink,"  said  De  Clianxville,  suppressing 
ills  excitement  with  an  effort,  "  that  the  lady  has  risked 
every  thing  upon  a  supposition  ?" 

"Knowing  the  lady,  I  do." 

De  Chauxville's  dull  eyes  gleamed  for  a  moment  with 
an  unwonted  light.  All  the  civilization  of  the  ages  will 
not  eradicate  the  primary  instincts  of  men — and  one  of 
these,  in  good  and  bad  alike,  is  to  protect  women.  The 
Frenchman  bit  the  end  of  his  cigarette,  and  angrily 
wiped  the  tobacco  from  his  lips. 

"  She  may  have  information  of  which  you  are  igno- 
rant," he  suggested. 

"Precisely.  It  is  that  particular  point  which  gives 
me  trouble  at  the  present  moment.  It  is  that  that  I 
wish  to  discover." 

De  Chauxville  looked  up  coolly.  He  saw  his  advan- 
tage. 

"  Hence  your  sudden  flow  of  communicativeness  ?  " 
he  said. 

Vassili  nodded. 

"  You  cannot  find  out  for  yourself,  so  you  seek  my 
help  ?  "  went  on  the  Frenchman. 

Again  the  Russian  nodded  his  head. 

"  And  your  price  ?  "  said  De  Chauxville,  drawing  in  his 
feet  and  leaning  forward,  apparently  to  study  the  pattern 
of  the  carpet.  The  action  concealed  his  face.  He  was 
saving  Etta,  and  he  was  ashamed  of  himself. 

"  When  3^ou  have  the  information  you  ma}^  name 
your  o\vn  price,"  said  the  Russian  coldly. 

There  was  a  long  silence.  Before  speaking  De  Chaux- 
ville turned  and  took  a  glass  of  liqueur  from  the  table. 
His  hand   was  not  quite  steady.     He  raised  the  glass 


234  THE     SOWERS 

quickly  and  emptied  it.  Then  lie  rose  and  looked  at  Lis 
Avatcli.     The  silence  was  a  compact. 

"When  the  lady  dined  with  you  in  Paris,  did  she 
recognize  you  ?"  he  asked. 

"  Yes  ;  but  she  did  not  know  that  I  recognized  her." 

For  the  moment  they  both  overlooked  Steiimietz. 

De  Chauxville  stood  reflecting. 

"  And  your  theory,"  he  said,  "  respecting  Sydney  Bam- 
borongh — what  is  it?" 

"  If  he  got  away  to  Nijni  and  the  Volga,  it  is  proba- 
ble that  he  is  in  Eastern  Siberia  or  in  Persia  at  this 
moment.     He  has  not  had  time  to  <>et  ric^ht  across  Asia 


5) 


yet. 

De  Chauxville  moved  toward  the  door.  With  his 
fingers  on  the  handle  he  paused  again. 

"  I  leave  early  to-morrow  morning,"  he  said. 

Vassili  nodded,  or  rather  he  bowed,  in  his  grand  way. 

Then  De  Chauxville  went  out  of  the  room.  They 
did  not  shake  hands.  There  is  sometimes  shame  among 
thieves. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

IN    THE    WEB 

"  What  I  propose  is  tliat  Catrina  takes  you  for  a  drive, 
my  dear  baron,  with  lier  two  ponies." 

Tlie  countess  bad  taken  very  good  care  to  refrain  from 
making  tbis  proposal  to  Catrina  alone.  Sbe  was  one  of 
tbose  motbers  wbo  rule  tbeir  daugbters  by  springing 
surprises  upon  tbem  in  a  carefully  selected  company 
wbere  tbe  daugbter  is  not  free  to  reply. 

De  Cbauxville  bowed  witb  outspread  bands. 

"  If  it  will  not  bore  mademoiselle,"  be  replied. 

Tbe  countess  looked  atlier  daugbter  witb  an  unctuous 
smile,  as  if  to  urge  ber  on  to  make  tbe  most  of  tbis 
opportunity.  It  was  one  of  tbe  countess's  cbief  troubles 
tbat  sbe  could  not  by  book  or  crook  involve  Catrina  in 
any  sort  of  a  love  intrigue.  She  was  tbe  sort  of  motber 
wbo  Avould  bave  preferred  to  bear  scandal  about  ber 
daugbter  to  bearing  notbing. 

"If  it  will  not  freeze  monsieur,"  replied  Catrina, 
witb  uncompromising  bonestj^ 

De  Cbauxville  laugbed  in  bis  frank  way. 

"I  am  not  afraid  of  coldness— of  tbe  atmospbere, 
mademoiselle,"  be  replied.  *' I  am  most  anxious  to  see 
your  beautiful  country.  It  was  quite  dark  during  tbe 
last  bour  of  my  journey  last  nigbt,  and  I  bad  snow- 
sleepiness.     I  saw  notbing." 

"You  will  see  notbing  but  snow,"  said  Catrina. 

"Wbicb  is  like  tbe  reserve  of  a  young  girl,"  added 
tbe  Frencbman.  "  It  keeps  warm  tbat  wbicb  is  beneatb 
it." 


236  THE    SOWERS 

"  You  need  not  be  afraid  with  Catvina,"  cliimed  in  the 
countess,  nodding  and  becking  in  a  manner  tliat  clearly 
showed  her  assumption  to  herself  of  some  vague  com- 
pliment. "  She  drives  beautifully.  She  is  not  nervous 
in  that  way.     I  have  never  seen  any  one  drive  like  her." 

"I  have  no  doubt,"  said  De  Chauxville,  "that  made- 
moiselle's hands  are  firm,  despite  their  diminutiveness." 

The  countess  was  charmed — and  showed  it.  She 
frowned  at  Catrina,  who  remained  grave  and  looked  at 
the  clock. 

"When  w^ould  you  like  to  go  ?"  she  asked  De  Chaux- 
ville, -with  that  complete  absence  of  affectation  which 
the  Russian,  of  all  w^omen  of  the  world,  alone  have 
mastered  in  their  conversation  with  men. 

"Am  I  not  at  your  service — now  and  always?"  re- 
sponded tlie  gallant  baron. 

"I  hope  not,"  replied  Catrina  quietly.  "There  are 
occasions  when  I  have  no  use  for  you.  Shall  we  say 
eleven  o'clock  ?  " 

"  With  pleasure.  Then  I  will  go  and  write  my  letters 
now,"  said  the  baron,  quitting  the  room. 

"A  charming  man  !  "  ejaculated  the  countess,  before 
the  door  ^vas  well  closed. 

"  A  fool  !  "  corrected  Catrina. 

"  I  do  not  think  you  can  say  that,  dear,"  sighed  the 
countess,  more  in  sorrow  than  in  anger. 

"A  clever  one,"  answered  Catrina.  "There  is  a 
difference.     The  clever  ones  are  the  worst." 

The  countess  shrugged  her  shoulders  hopelessly,  and 
Catrina  left  the  room.  She  went  upstairs  to  lier  own 
little  den,  where  the  piano  stood.  It  was  the  only 
room  in  the  house  that  was  not  too  warm,  for  here  the 
window  was  occnsionally  opened — a  proceeding  which 
the  countess  considered  scarce!}^  short  of  criminal. 

Catrina  began  to  play,  feverishly,  nervousl}^  with  all 
the  weird  force  of  iier  nature.     She  was  like  a  very  sick 


IN    THE    AVEB 


237 


person  seeking  a  desperate  remedy— racing  against  time. 
It  was  her  liabit  to  take  her  breaking  lieart  thus  to  the 
great  masters,  to  interpret  tlieir  tlioughts  in  their  music, 
welding  their  medodies  to  the  needs  of  her  own  sorrow. 
She  onty  had  half  an  hour.  Of  late  music  had  failed 
her  a  little.  It  had  not  given  her  the  comfort  she  had 
usually  extracted  from  solitude  and  the  piano.  She  was 
in  a  dangerous  humor.  Slie  was  afraid  of  trusting  her- 
self  to  Do  Chauxville.  The  time  fled,  and  her  humor 
did  not  change.  She  was  still  playing  when  the  door 
opened,  and  the  countess  stood  before  her  flushed  and 
angry,  either  or  both  being  the  effect  of  stairs  upon 
emotion. 

"  Catrina  !  "  tlie  elder  lady  exclaimed.  "  The  sleigh 
is  at  the  door,  and  the  count  is  waiting.  I  cannot  tell 
what  you  are  thinking  of.  It  is  not  every-body  who 
would  be  so  attentive  to  you.  Just  look  at  your  hair. 
Why  can't  you  dress  like  other  girls  ?  " 

"  Because  I  am  not  made  like  other  girls,"  replied 
Catrina— and  who  knows  what   bitterness  of  reproach 

there  was  in  such  an  answer  from  daughter  to  mother? 
"Hush,   child,"    replied    the   countess,   whofee   anger 

usually  took  the  form  of  personal  abuse.     "  You  are  as 

the  good  God  made  you." 

"  Then    the  good    God  must   have  made   me   in  the 

dark,"  cried  Catrina,  flinging  out  of  the  room. 

"  She  will  be  down  directly,"  said  the  Countess  Lano- 

vitch  to   De   Chauxville,   whom  she  found   smoking  a 

cigarette  in  the  hall.     "  She  naturally— he  !  he  !— wishes 

to  make  a  careful  toilet." 

De  Chauxville   bowed  gravely,  without   committing 

himself  to  any  observation,  and  offered  her  a  cigarette, 

which  she  accepted.     Having  achieved  his  purpose,  he 

did  not  now  propose  to  convey  the  impression  that  lie 

admired  Catrina. 

In  a  few  moments  the  girl  appeared,  drawing  on  her 


238  THE     SOWERS 

fur  gloves.  Before  the  door  was  opened  the  countess 
discreetly  retired  to  the  enervating  warmth  of  her  own 
apartments. 

Catrina  gathered  up  the  reins  and  gave  a  little  cr^^,  at 
which  the  ponies  leaped  forward,  and  in  a  whirl  of 
driven  snow  the  sleigh  glided  olf  between  the  pines. 

At  first  there  was  no  opportunity  of  conversation,  for 
the  ponies  were  fresh  and  troublesome.  The  road  over 
which  they  were  passing  had  not  been  beaten  down  by 
the  passage  of  previous  sleighs,  so  tliat  the  jiowdery 
snow  rose  up  like  dust,  and  tilled  the  eyes  and  mouth. 

"It  will  be  better  presently,"  gasped  Catrina,  wres- 
tling with  her  fra(;tious  little  Tartar  thoroughbreds, 
"  when  we  get  out  on  to  the  high-road." 

De  Chauxville  sat  quite  still.  If  he  felt  any  misgiv- 
ing as  to  her  power  of  mastering  her  team  he  ke23t  it  to 
himself.  There  was  a  subtle  difference  in  his  manner 
toward  Catrina  when  they  were  alone  together,  a  sug- 
gestion of  camaraderie,  of  a  common  interest  and  a  com- 
mon desire,  of  which  she  was  conscious  without  being 
able  to  put  definite  meaning  to  it. 

It  annoyed  and  alarmed  her.  While  giving  iier  full 
attention  to  the  management  of  the  sleigh,  she  was 
beginning  to  dread  the  first  words  of  this  man,  who  was 
merely  wielding  a  cheap  power  acquired  in  the  shady 
course  of  his  career.  There  is  nothing  so  disarming  as 
the  assumed  air  of  intimate  knowledge  of  one's  private 
thoughts  and  actions.  De  Chauxville  assumed  this  air 
with  a  skill  against  which  Catrina's  dogged  strength  of 
character  was  incapable  of  battling.  His  manner  con- 
veyed the  impression  that  be  knew  more  of  Catrina's 
inward  thoughts  than  any  other  living  being,  and  she 
was  simple  enough  to  be  frightened  into  the  conclusion 
that  she  had  betrayed  herself  to  liim.  There  is  no 
simpler  method  of  discovering  a  secret  than  to  ignore 
its  existence 


IN    THE    WEB  239 

It  is  possible  that  Do  Chauxville  became  aware  of 
Catriiia's  sidelong  glances  of  anxiety  in  his  direction. 
He  may  have  divined  that  silence  was  more  effective 
than  speech. 

He  sat  looking  straight  in  front  of  him,  as  if  too 
deeply  absorbed  in  his  own  thoughts  to  take  even  a 
passing  interest  in  the  scener}-. 

"  Why  did  you  come  here?  "  asked  Catrina  suddenly. 

De  Chauxville  seemed  to  awake  from  a  revery.  He 
turned  and  looked  at  her  in  assumed  surprise.  They 
were  on  the  high-road  now,  where  the  snow  was  beaten 
down,  so  conversation  was  easy. 

"  But — to  sec  you,  mademoiselle." 

"  I  am  not  that  sort  of  girl,"  answered  Catrina  coldly. 
"  I  want  the  truth." 

De  Chauxville  gave  a  short  laugh  and  looked  at  her. 

"Prophets  and  kings  have  sought  the  truth,  made- 
moiselle, and  Iiave  not  found  it,"  he  said  lightl}^ 

Catrina  made  no  answer  to  this.  Her  ponies  required 
considerable  attention.  Also,  tliere  are  some  minds  like 
large  banking  houses — not  dealing  in  small  change. 
Tiiat  whicii  passes  in  or  out  of  such  minds  has  its  own 
standard  of  importance.  Such  people  are  not  of  much 
use  in  these  days,  when  we  like  to  touch  things  lightly, 
adorning  a  tale  but  pointing  no  moral. 

"I  would  ask  you  to  believe  that  your  society  wasone 
incentive  to  make  me  accept  the  countess's  kind  hospi- 
talit}^"  the  Frenchman  observed  after  a  pause. 

"And?" 

De  Chauxville  looked  at  her.  He  had  not  met  many 
women  of  solid  intellect. 

"  And  ?  "  repeated  Catrina. 

"  I  have  others,  of  course." 

Catrina  gave  a  little  nod  and  waited. 

"I  wish  to  be  near  Alexis,"  added  De  Chauxville. 

Catrina  was  staring  straight   in   front  of  hei'.     Her 


240  THE     SO^VERS 

f.ace  liad  .acquired  a  liabit  of  liardening  at  the  mention 
of  Paul's  name.  It  was  stone-like  now,  and  set.  Per- 
haps she  might  have  forgiven  him  if  he  had  loved  her 
once,  if  only  for  a  little  while.  She  might  have  forgiven 
him,  if  only  for  the  remembrance  of  tliat  little  while. 
But  Paul  had  always  been  a  man  of  set  purpose,  and 
sucli  men  are  cruel.  Even  for  her  sake,  even  for  the 
sake  of  his  own  vanitj^,  he  had  never  pretended  to  love 
Catrina.  He  had  never  mistaken  gratified  vanity  for 
dawning  love,  as  millions  of  men  do.  Or  perhaps  he 
was  without  vanity.     Some  few  men  are  so  constructed. 

"  Do  you  love  him  so  ?  "  asked  Catrina,  with  a  crim 
smile  distorting  her  strong  face. 

*'As  much  as  you,  mademoiselle,"  replied  De  Chaux- 
ville. 

Catrina  started.  She  was  not  sure  that  she  hated 
Paul.  Toward  Etta,  there  was  no  mistake  in  her  feel- 
ing, and  this  was  so  strong  that,  like  an  electric  current, 
there  was  enough  of  it  to  pass  through  the  wife  and 
reach  the  husband. 

Passion,  like  character,  does  not  grow  in  crowded 
places.  In  great  cities  men  are  all  more  or  less  alike. 
It  is  onl^^  in  solitary  abodes  that  strong  natures  grow  up 
in  their  own  way.  Catrina  had  grown  to  womanhood 
in  one  of  the  solitary  places  of  the  earth.  She  had  no 
facile  axiom,  no  ])owerfnl  precedent,  to  guide  her  every 
step  through  life.  The  woman  who  was  in  daily  con- 
tact with  her  was  immeasurabl}^  beneath  her  in  mental 
power,  in  force  of  character,  in  those  possibilities  of 
love  or  hatred  which  go  to  make  a  strong  life  for  good 
or  for  evil.  By  the  side  of  her  daughter  the  Countess 
Lanovitch  was  as  the  willow,  swayed  by  every  wi'  d,  in 
the  neighborhood  of  the  oak,  crooked  and  still  and 
strong. 

"  In  Petersburo:  you  ])ledged  yourself  to  helj)  me," 
said  De  Cliauxville.     And   although    she   knew  that   ip 


IN   THE    WEB  241 

the   letter  this   was  false,  slie  did  not  contradict  him. 
"  I  came  here  to  cLaim  fulfilment  of  your  promise." 

The  hard  blue  eyes  beneath  the  fur  cap  stared  straight 
in  front  of  them.  Catrina  seemed  to  be  driving  like  one 
asleep,  for  she  noted  nothing  by  the  roadside.  So  far 
as  eye  could  reach  over  the  snow-clad  plain,  through  the 
silent  pines,  these  two  were  alone  in  a  wliite,  dead  world 
of  their  own.  Catrina  never  drove  with  bells.  There 
was  no  sound  beyond  the  high-pitched  drone  of  the  steel 
runners  over  the  powdery  snow.  They  were  alone  ; 
unseen,  unheard  save  of  that  Ear  that  listens  in  the 
waste  places  of  the  world. 

"What  do  you  want  me  to  do?"  she  asked. 

"  Oh,  not  very  much  ! "  answered  De  Chauxville — a 
cautious  man,  who  knew  a  woman's  humor.  Catrina 
driving  a  pair  of  ponies  in  the  clear,  sharp  air  of  Central 
Russia,  and  Catrina  playing  the  piano  in  the  enervating, 
flower-scented  atmosphere  of  a  drawing-room,  were  two 
different  women.  De  Chauxville  was  not  the  man  to 
mistake  the  one  for  the  other. 

"  Not  very  much,  mademoiselle,"  he  answered.  "  I 
should  like  Mme.  la  Comtesse  to  invite  the  whole 
Osterno  party  to  dine,  and  sleep,  perhaps,  if  one  may 
suggest  it." 

Catrina  wanted  this  too.  She  wanted  to  torture  her- 
self with  the  sight  of  Etta,  beautiful,  self-confident,  care- 
lessly cognizant  of  Paul's  love.  Slie  wanted  to  see  Paul 
look  at  his  wife  with  the  open  admiration  which  she  had 
set  down  as  something  else  than  love — something  immeas- 
urably beneath  love  as  Catrina  understood  tliat  passion. 
Her  soul,  brooding  under  a  weight  of  misery,  was  ready 
to  welcome  any  change,  should  it  only  mean  a  greater 
misery. 

"I  can  manage  that,"  she  said,  "if  they  will  come. 
It  was  a  prearranged  matter  that  there  should  be  a  bear- 
hunt  in  our  forests." 
16 


242  THE     SOWERS 

"  Tliat  will  do,-'  answered  De  Chauxville  reflectively  ; 
"  ill  a  few  days,  perhaps,  if  it  suits  the  countess." 

Catrina  made  no  reply.  After  a  pause  she  spoke 
again,  in  her  strange,  jerky  way. 

"  What  will  you  gain  by  it  ?"  she  asked. 

De  Chauxville  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  Who  knows  ?  "  he  answered.  "  There  are  many 
things  I  want  to  know  ;  many  questions  which  can  be 
answered  only  by  one's  own  observation.  I  want  to  see 
them  together.     Are  they  happy  ?" 

Catrina's  face  hardened. 

"  If  there  is  a  God  in  heaven,  and  he  hears  our  prayers, 
they  ought  not  to  be,"  she  replied  curtly. 

"  She  looked  happy  enough  in  Petersburg,"  said  the 
Frenchman,  who  never  told  the  truth  for  its  own  sake. 
Whenever  he  thought  that  Catrina's  hatred  needed 
stimulation  he  mentioned  Etta's  name. 

"  There  are  other  questions  in  my  mind,"  he  Avent  on, 
"  some  of  which  you  can  answer,  mademoiselle,  if  you 
care  to." 

Catrina's  face  expressed  no  great  willingness  to 
oblige. 

"The  Charity  League,"  said  Do  Chauxville,  looking 
at  her  keenly  ;  "  I  have  always  had  a  feeling  of  curiosity 
respecting  it.  Was,  for  instance,  our  friend  the  Prince 
Pavlo  implicated  in  that  unfortunate  affair?" 

Catrina  flushed  suddenly.  She  did  not  take  her  eyes 
from  the  ponies.  She  was  conscious  of  the  unwonted 
color  in  her  cheeks,  which  was  slowly  dying  away 
beneath  her  companion's  relentless  ga/.e. 

"You  need  not  trouble  to  rei)ly,  mademoiselle," 
said  De  Chauxville,  with  his  dark  smile;  "I  am 
answered." 

Catrina  pulled  the  ponies  up  with  a  jerk,  and  pro- 
ceeded to  turn  their  willing  heads  toward  home.  She 
was  alarmed  and  disturbed.     Nothing  seemed  to  be  safe 


IN    THE    AVEB  243 

from  the  curiosity  of  this  nifin,  no  secret  secure,  no  pre- 
varication of  the  slightest  avail. 

"  There  are  other  questions  in  my  mind,"  said  De 
Chauxville  quietly,  "  but  not  now.  Mademoiselle  is  no 
doubt  tired." 

He  leaned  back,  and  when  at  length  he  spoke  it  Avas 
to  give  utterance  to  the  trite  commonplace  of  which  he 
made  a  conversational  study. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

IN    THE    CASTLE    OF    THORS 

A  WEEK  Liter  Catrina,  watcliing  from  the  wincloAV  of 
her  own  small  room,  saw  Paul  lift  Etta  from  the  sleigh, 
and  the  siglit  made  her  clench  her  hands  until  the 
knuckles  shone  like  polished  ivor}^ 

She  turned  and  looked  at  herself  in  the  mirror.  No 
one  knew  how  she  had  tried  one  dress  after  another  since 
luncheon,  alone  in  her  two  rooms,  having  sent  her  maid 
down  stairs.  No  one  knew  the  bitterness  in  this  girl's 
lieart  as  she  contemplated  her  own  reflection. 

She  went  slowl}^  down  stairs  to  the  long,  dimly  lighted 
drawing-room.  As  she  entered  she  heard  her  mother's 
cackling  voice. 

"  Yes,  princess,"  the  countess  was  saying,  "  it  is  a 
quaint  old  house  ;  little  more  than  a  fortified  farm,  I 
know.  But  my  husband's  family  were  always  strange. 
They  seem  always  to  have  ignored  the  little  comforts 
and  elegancies  of  life." 

"  It  is  most  interesting,"  answered  Etta's  voice,  and 
Catrina  stepped  forward  into  the  light. 

Formal  greetings  were  exchanged,  and  Catrina  saw 
Etta  look  anxiously  toward  the  door  through  M'hich  she 
had  just  come.  Slie  thought  thnt  she  wns  looking  for 
her  husband.  But  it  was  Claude  de  Chauxville  for 
whose  appearance  Etta  Avas  waiting. 

Paul  and  Steinmetz  entered  at  the  same  moment  by 
another  door,  and  Catrinn,  who  was  talking  to  Maggie 
in  English,  suddenly  stopped. 


IN   THE    CASTLE    OP  TIIORS  245 

"  All,  Catrina,"  said  Paul,  "  we  have  broken  new 
ground  for  you.  There  was  no  track  from  liere  to 
Osterno  tlirough  the  forest.  I  made  one  this  afternoon, 
so  you  have  no  excuse  for  remaining  away,  now." 

"  Tiiank  you,"  answered  Catrina,  withdrawing  lier 
cold  hand  hurriedly  from  Iiis  friendly  grasp. 

"  Miss  Delafleld,"  Avent  on  Paul,  "  admires  our  country 
as  much  as  you  do." 

"  I  was  just  telling  mademoiselle,"  said  Maggie,  speak- 
ing French  with  an  honest  English  accent. 

Paul  nodded,  and  left  them  together. 

*'■  Yes,"  the  countess  was  saying  at  the  other  end  of 
the  gloomy  room  ;  "  yes,  we  are  greatly  attached  to 
Tiiors  :  Catrina,  perhaps,  more  than  I.  I  have  some 
happy  associations,  and  many  sorrowful  ones.  But 
then — mon  Dieu  ! — how  isolated  we  are  !  " 

"  It  is  rather  far  from— anywhere,"  acceded  Etta, 
who  was  not  attending,  although  she  appeared  to  be 
interested. 

"  Far  !  Princess,  I  often  wonder  how  Paris  and  Thors 
can  be  in  the  same  world  !  Before  our— our  troubles 
we  used  to  live  in  Paris  a  portion  of  the  year.  At  least 
I  did,  while  my  poor  husband  travelled  about.  He  had 
a  hobby,  you  know,  poor  man  !  Humanity  was  his 
hobby.  I  have  always  found  that  men  who  seek  to  do 
good  to  their  fellows  are  never  thanked.  Have  you 
noticed  that  ?  The  human  race  is  not  grateful  en  gros. 
There  is  a  little  gratitude  in  the  individual,  but  none  in 
the  race." 

"None,"  answered  Etta  absently. 

"  It  was  so  with  the  Ciiarity  League,"  went  on  the 
countess  volubly.  She  paused  and  looked  round  with 
lier  feeble  e^-es. 

"  We  are  all  friends,"  she  went  on  ;  "  so  it  is  safe  to 
mention  the  Charity  League,  is  it  not  ?  " 

"  No,"  answered  Steinmetz  from  the  fire-place ;  "no. 


246  THE     SOWERS 

madaine.     There  is  only  one  friend  to  whom  you  may 
sufely  mention  that." 

"  AhJ  Bad  example  I  "  exclaimed  the  countess  play- 
fully. "  You  are  there  !  I  did  not  see  you  enter.  And 
who  is  that  friend  ?  " 

"  Tlie  fair  lady  who  looks  at  yon  from  your  mirror," 
replied  Steinmetz,  with  a  face  of  stone. 

The  countess  laughed  and  shook  her  cap  to  one  side. 

"Well,"  she  said,  "lean  do  no  harm  in  talking  of 
such  things,  as  I  know  nothing  of  them.  My  poor  hus- 
band— my  poor  mistaken  Stepan — placed  no  confidence 
in  his  wife.  And  now  he  is  in  Siberia.  I  believe  he 
works  in  a  bootmaker's  shop.  I  pity  the  people  who 
wear  the  boots  ;  but  perhaps  he  only  puts  in  the  laces. 
You  hear,  Paul?  He  placed  no  contidence  in  his  wife, 
and  now  he  is  in  Siberia.  Let  that  be  a  warning  to 
you—eh,  princess?     I  hope  he  tells  you  everything." 

"  Put  not  your  trust  in  princesses,"  said  Steinmetz 
from  the  hearth-rug,  where  he  was  still  warming  his 
hands,  for  he  had  driven  Maggie  over.  "  It  says  so  in 
the  Bible." 

"Princes, profane  one  !  "  exclaimed  the  countess  with 
a  laugh — "  princes,  not  princesses  !  " 

"  It  may  be  so.  I  bow  to  your  superior  literary  attain- 
ments," replied  Steinmetz,  looking  casually  and  signifi- 
cantly at  a  pile  of  yellow-backed  foreign  novels  on  a 
side-table. 

"  jSTo,"  the  countess  went  on,  addressing  her  conversa- 
tion to  Etta  ;  "  no,  my  husband— figure  to  yourself, 
princess— told  me  nothing.  I  never  knew  that  he  was 
implicated  in  this  great  scheme.  I  do  not  know  now 
who  else  was  concerned  in  it.  It  was  all  so  sudden,  so 
unexpected,  so  terrible.  It  appears  that  he  kept  the 
papers  in  this  very  house— in  that  room  through  there. 

It  was  his  study " 

"My  dear  countess,  silence  !  "  interrupted  Steinmetz 


IN    THE    CASTLE    OF   THORS  247 

at  this  moment,  breaking  into  the  conversation  in  his 
masterful  way  and  enabling  Etta  to  get  away.  Catrina, 
at  tl)e  other  end  of  tlie  room,  was  listening,  hard-eyed, 
breathless.  It  was  the  sight  of  Catrina's  face  that  made 
Steinmetz  go  forward.  He  had  not  been  looking  at 
Catrina,  but  at  Etta,  who  was  perfect  in  her  composure/ 
and  steady  self-control. 

"Do  you  want  to  enter  the  boot  trade  also?"  asked 
Steinmetz  cheoi'fully,  in  a  lowered  voice. 

"  Heaven  forbid  !  "  cried  the  countess. 

"  Then  let  us  talk  of  safer  things." 

The  short  twilight  was  already  brooding  over  the 
land.  The  room,  lighted  only  by  small  square  win- 
dows, grew  darker  and  darker  until  Catrina  rang  for 
lamps. 

"  I  hate  a  dark  room,"  she  said  shortly  to  Maggie. 

When  De  Chauxville  came  in,  a  few  minutes  later, 
Catrina  was  at  the  piano.  The  room  was  brilliantly 
lighted,  and  on  the  table  gleamed  and  glittered  the 
silver  tea-things.  The  intermediate  meal  had  been  dis- 
posed of,  but  the  samovar  had  been  left  alight,  as  is  the 
habit  at  Russian  afternoon  teas. 

Catrina  looked  up  when  the  Frenchman  entered,  but 
did  not  cease  playing. 

"There  is  no  need  for  introductions,  I  think,"  said 
the  countess. 

"  We  all  know  M.  de  Chauxville,"  replied  Paul 
quietly,  and  the  two  men  exchanged  a  glance. 

De  Chauxville  shook  hands  with  the  new-comers,  and, 
while  the  countess  prepared  tea  for  him,  launched  into 
a  long  description  of  the  preparations  for  the  bear-hunt 
of  the  following  day.  He  addressed  his  remarks  ex- 
clusively to  Paul,  as  between  enthusiasts  and  fellow- 
sportsmen.  Gradually  Paul  thawed  a  little,  and  made 
one  or  two  suggestions  which  betrayed  a  deep  knowl- 
edge and  a  dawning  interest. 


248  THE     SOWEES 

"We  shall  only  be  three  rifles,"  said  De  Clianxville, 
"Steinraetz,  you,  and  I  ;  and  I  must  ask  you  to  bear  in 
mind  the  fact  that  I  am  no  shot — a  mere  amateur,  my 
dear  prince.  The  countess  has  been  good  enougli  to 
leave  the  whole  matter  in  mj^  hands.  I  have  seen  the 
keepers,  and  I  have  arranged  that  they  come  to-night 
at  eleven  o'clock  to  see  us  and  to  report  progress.  They 
know  of  three  bears,  and  are  attempting  to  ring 
them." 

The  Frenchman  was  reallj^  full  of  information  and 
enthusiasm.  There  were  many  details  upon  which  he 
required  Paul's  advice,  and  the  two  men  talked  together 
w^ith  less  constraint  tlian  tliey  had  hitherto  done.  De 
Chauxville  had  picked  up  a  vast  deal  of  technical  matter, 
and  handled  his  little  knowledge  with  a  skill  Avhich 
bade  fair  to  deprive  it  of  its  proverbial  danger.  He 
presently  left  Steinmetz  and  the  prince  engaged  in  a 
controversy  with  the  countess  as  to  a  meeting-place  at 
the  luncheon-hour. 

Maggie  and  Catrina  Avere  at  the  piano.  Etta  was 
looking  at  a  book  of  photographs. 

"A  charming  house,  princess,"  said  De  Chauxville,  in 
a  voice  that  all  could  liear  while  the  music  happened  to 
be  soft.  But  Catrina's  music  was  more  remarkable  for 
strength  than  for  softness. 

"  Charming,"  replied  Etta. 

The  music  rose  into  a  swelling  burst  of  harmonious 
chords. 

"  I  must  see  you,  princess,"  said  De  Cliauxville. 

Etta  glanced  across  the  room  toward  her  husband  and 
Steinmetz. 

"  Alone,"  added  the  Frenchman  coolly. 

Etta  turned  a  page  of  the  album  and  looked  critically 
into  a  photograph. 

"Must  !  "  she  said,  with  a  little  frown. 

"  Must !  "  repeated  De  Chauxville. 


IN    THE    CASTLl-]    OF    THORS  249 

"A  word  I  do  not  care  about,"  said  Etta,  with  raised 
eyebrows. 

Tlie  music  was  soft  again. 

"It  is  ten  years  since  1  held  a  rifle,"  said  De  Chaux- 
ville.  "Ah,  madame,  you  do  not  know  the  excitement. 
I  pity  hidies,  for  tliey  have  no  sport— no  big  game." 

"  Personally,  monsieur,"  answered  Etta,  with  a  bright 
laugh,  "  I  do  not  grudge  you  your  big  game.  Suppose 
you  miss  the  bear,  or  whatever  it  may  be  ?" 

"Then,"  said  De  Chauxville,  with  a  brave  shrug  of 
tlie  shoulders,  "  it  is  the  turn  of  the  bear.  The  excite- 
ment is  his — the  laugh  is  with  him." 

Catrina's  foot  was  upon  the  loud  pedal  again. 
"  Nevertheless,  madame,"    said    De    Chauxville,    "I 
make  so  bold  as  to   use  the  word.      You  perhaps  know 
me  well  o^iough  to  be  aware  that  I  am  rarely  bold  unless 
my  ground  is  sure." 

"I  should  not  boast  of  it,"  answered  Etta  ;  "there  is 
nothing  to  be  proud  of.  It  is  easy  enough  to  be  bold 
if  you  are  certain  of  victory." 

"  When  defeat  would  be  intolerable,  even  a  certain 
victory  requires  care  !     And  I  cannot  afford  to  lose." 
"Lose  what?"  enquired  Etta. 

De  Chauxville  looked  at  her,  but  he  did  not  answer. 
The  music  was  soft  again. 

"I  suppose  that  at  Osterno  you  set  no  value  upon  a 
bear-skin,"  he  said  after  a  pause. 

"  We  have  many,"  admitted  Etta.     "  But  I  love  fur, 
or  trophies  of  any  description.     Paul  has  killed  a  great 
d?al." 
"  Ah  !  " 

"Yes,"  answered  Etta,  and  the  music  rose  again.  "I 
should  like  to  know,"  she  went  on,  "  u])on  what  assump- 
tion you  make  use  of  a  word  which  does  not  often — 
annoy  me." 

"I   have    a   good    memory,    madame.      Besides,"   he 


250  TFIE     SOWERS 

paused,  looking  round  the  room,  "  there  are  associations 
within  these  walls  which  stimulate  the  memory." 

"What  do  you  mean  ?"  asked  EUa,  in  a  hard  voice. 
The  hand  holding  the  album  suddenly  shook  like  a  leaf 
in  the  wind. 

De  Chauxville  had  stood  upright,  his  hand  at  his 
mustache,  after  the  manner  of  a  man  whose  small-talk 
is  exhausted.  It  would  appear  that  he  was  wondering 
how  he  could  gracefully  get  away  from  the  princess  to 
pay  his  devoirs  elsewhere. 

"I  cannot  tell  you  now,"  he  answered  ;  "  Catrina  is 
watching  us  across  the  piano.  You  must  beware, 
raadarae,  of  those  cold  blue  eyes." 

He  moved  away,  going  toward  the  piano,  where 
Maggie  was  standing  behind  Catrina's  chair.  He  was 
like  a  woman,  inasmuch  as  he  could  not  keep  away  from 
liis  failures. 

"Are  you  advanced,  Miss  Delafield  ?  "  he  asked,  with 
his  deferential  little  bow.     "Are  you  modern  ?  " 

"I  am  neither  ;  I  have  no  desire  for  even  the  cheapest 
form  of  notoriety.     Why  do  you  ask  ?  "  replied  Maggie. 

"  I  was  merely  wondering  whether  we  were  to  count 
you  among  our  rifles  to-morrow.  One  never  knows 
what  ladies  will  do  next  ;  not  ladies — I  apologize — 
women.  I  suppose  it  is  those  who  are  not  by  birth 
ladies  who  aspire  to  the  proud  name  of  women.  The 
modern  Woman — with  a  capital  W — is  not  a  lad}^ — 
n'est  ce  pas  ?  " 

"  She  does  not  mind  your  abuse,  monsieur,"  laughed 
Maggie.     "  So  long  as  you  do  not  ignore  her,  she  is^ 
happy.     But  you  may  set  your  mind  at  rest  as  regards 
to-morrow.     I  have  never  let  off  a  gun  in  my  life,  and  I 
am  sensible  enough  not  to  begin  on  bears." 

De  Chauxville  made  a  suitable  reply,  and  remained 
by  the  piano  talking  to  the  two  j^oung  ladies  until  Etta 
rose  and  came  toward  them.     He  then  crossed  to  the 


IN    THE    CASTLE    OF    TIIORS  251 

Other  sido  of  tlie  room  and  cngnged  Paul  in  tlio  discus- 
sion of  furtlici-  plans  for  tlie  morrow. 

It  was  soon  time  to  dress  for  dinner,  and  Etta  was 
forced  to  forego  the  opportunity  she  souglit  to  excliange 
a  word  alone  with  De  Chauxviile.  That  astute  gentle- 
man carefully  avoided  allowing  her  this  opportunity. 
He  knew  the  value  of  a  little  suspense. 

During  dinner  and  afterward,  when  at  length  the 
gentlemen  came  to  the  drawing-room,  the  conversation 
was  of  a  sporting  tendency.  B^ars,  bear-hunting,  and 
bear  stories  lield  supreme  sway.  More  tlian  once  De 
Chauxviile  returned  to  this  subject.  Twice  he  avoided 
Etta. 

In  some  ways  this  man  was  courageous.  He  delayed 
giving  Etta  her  opportunity  until  there  was  a  question 
of  retiring  to  bed  in  view  of  the  early  start  required 
by  tlie  next  day's  arrangements.  It  had  been  finally 
settled  that  the  tliree  younger  ladies  sliould  drive  over 
to  a  woodman's  cottage  at  the  far  end  of  the  forest, 
where  luncheon  was  to  be  served.  Wiiile  this  item  of 
the  programme  was  arranged  De  Chauxviile  looked 
straight  at  Etta  across  the   table. 

At  length  she  had  the  chance  afforded  to  her,  deliber- 
ately, by  De  Chauxviile. 

"  What  did  you  mean  ?  "  she  asked  at  once. 

*'  I  have  received  information  which,  had  I  known  it 
tliree  months  ago,  would  have  made  a  difference  in  your 
life." 

''  What  difference  ?  " 

"I  should  have  been  j^our  husband,  instead  of  that 
thick-headed  giant." 

Etta  laughed,  but  her  lips  were  for  the  moment  color- 
less. 

"  When  am  I  to  see  you  alone  ?  " 

Etta  shrugged  her  shoulders.  She  had  plenty  of 
spii'it. 


252  THE     SOWERS 

"  Please  do  not  be   dramatic  or  mysterious  ;    I  am 
tii'cd.     Good-niglit." 

She  rose  and  concealed  a  simulated  yawn. 
.     De  Cliauxville  looked  at  her  witli   his  sinister  smile, 
and  Etta  suddenly  saw  the  resemblance  which  Paul  had 
noted  between   this  man  and  the  grinning  mask  of  the 
lynx  in  the  smoking-room  at  Osterno. 

"  When  ?  "  repeated  he. 

Etta  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"  I  wish  to  speak  to  you  about  the  Charity  League," 
said  De  Cliauxville. 

Etta's  eyes  dilated.     She  made  a  step  or  two  away 
from  him,  but  she  came  back. 

"  I  shall  not  go   to   the  luncheon  to-morrow,  if  you 
care  to  leave  the  hunt  eari3^" 

De  Cliauxville  bowed. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

ANGLO-RUSSIAN 

At  bedtime  Catriiia  went  to  Maggie's  room  with  her 
to  see  that  slie  had  all  that  she  could  desire.  A  vv^ood 
lire  was  burning  brightly  in  the  open  French  stove  ;  the 
room  was  lighted  by  lamps.  It  was  warm  and  cheery. 
A  second  door  led  to  tlie  little  music-room  which  Catrina 
liad  made  her  own,  and  beyond  was  her  bedroom. 

Maggie  had  assured  her  hostess  that  she  had  every 
thing  that  she  could  wish,  and  that  she  did  not  desire 
the  services  of  Catrina's  maid.  But  the  Russian  girl 
still  lingered.  She  was  slow  to  make  friends — not  shy, 
but  diffident  and  suspicious.  Her  friendship  once 
secured  was  a  thing  worth  possessing.  She  was  inclined 
to  bestow  it  upon  this  quiet,  self-contained  English  girl. 
In  such  matters  tiie  length  of  an  acquaintance  goes  for 
nothing.  A  long  acquaintanceship  does  not  necessarily 
mean  friendship — one  being  the  result  of  circumstance, 
the  other  of  selection. 

"  The  princess  knows  Russian  ? "  said  Catrina  sud- 
denly. 

She  was  standing  near  the  dressing-table,  where  she 
had  been  absently  attending  to  the  candles.  She 
wheeled  round  and  looked  at  Maggie,  who  was  hospita-^ 
bly  sitting  on  a  low  chair  near  the  lire.  She  was  sorry 
for  the  loneliness  of  this  girl's  life.  She  did  not  want 
her  to  go  away  just  yet.  There  was  another  chair  by 
the  fire,  inviting  Catrina  to  indulge  in  those  maiden  con 
fidences  which  attach  themselves  to  slippers  and  hair- 
brushings. 


254  THE     SOWERS 

Maggie  looked  up  witli  a  smile  wliich  slowly  ebbed 
awa3^  Catriiia's  remark  was  of  the  nature  of  a  defiance. 
Her  lialf-difiident  role  of  hostess  was  suddenly  laid 
aside. 

"No  ;  she  does  not,"  answered  tlie  English  girl. 

Catrina  came  forward,  standing  over  Maggie,  looking 
down  at  her  with  eyes  full  of  antagonism. 

"  Excuse  me.  I  saw  her  understand  a  remark  I  made 
to  one  of  the  servants.  She  was  not  careful.  I  saw  it 
distinctly." 

"  I  tliink  you  must  be  mistaken,"  answered  Maggie 
quietly.  "  She  has  been  in  Russia  before  for  a  few 
weeks  ;  but  she  did  not  learn  the  language.  She  told 
me  so  herself.  Why  should  she  pretend  not  to  know 
Russian,  if  she  does?" 

Catrina  made  no  answer.  She  sat  heavil}^  down  in 
the  vacant  chair.  Her  attitudes  were  uncouth  and 
strong — a  perpetual  source  of  tribulation  to  the  coun- 
tess. She  sat  V\'ith  her  elbow  on  her  knee,  staring  into 
the  fire. 

*'  I  did  not  mean  to  liate  her  ;  I  did  not  want  to,"  she 
said.     "  If  it  had  been  you,  I  sliould  not  have  liated  you." 

Maggie's  clear  eyes  wavered  for  a  moment.  A  faint 
color  rose  to  her  face.  She  leaned  back  so  that  the  fire- 
light did  not  reach  her.  There  was  a  silence,  during 
which  Maggie  unclasped  a  bracelet  witli  a  little  snap  of 
the  spring.  Catrina  did  not  liear  the  sound.  She  heard 
nothing.  She  did  not  appear  to  be  aware  of  her  sur- 
roundings. Maggie  unclasped  another  bracelet  noisily. 
She  was  probably  regretting  her  former  kindness  of 
manner.     Catrina  liad  come  too  near. 

"  Are  you  not  judging  rather  hastily  ?  "  suggested 
Maggie,  in  a  measured  voice  which  heightened  the 
contrast  between  the  two.  "'Ifind  it  takes  some  time 
to  discover  whether  one  likes  or  dislikes  new  acquaint- 


ANGLO-RUSSIAN  255 

"Yes;  but  you  Euglisli  are  so  cold  and  deliberate. 
You  do  not  know  what  it  is  to  hate — or  to  care." 

"  Perhaps  we  do,"  said  Maggie  ;  "  but  we  say  less 
about  it." 

Catrina  turned  and  looked  at  her  with  a  queer  smile. 

"  Less  !  "  she  laughed.  "  Nothing— you  say  nothings 
Paul  is  the  same.  I  have  seen.  I  know.  You  liave 
said  nothing  since  you  came  toThors.  You  have  talked 
and  laughed  ;  you  have  given  opinions  ;  you  have  spoken 
of  many  things,  but  you  have  said  nothing.  You  are 
the  same  as  Paul — one  never  knows.  I  know  nothing 
about  you.     But  I  like  you.     You  are  her  cousin  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"And  I  hate  her!" 

Maggie  laughed.     She  was  quite  steady  and  loyal. 

"  When  you  get  to  know  her  you  will  change,  per- 
haps," she  said.  ^» 

"  Perhaps  I  know  her  now  better  than  you  do  !  " 

Maggie  laughed  in  her  cheerj^,  practical  wa^^ 

"  That  seems  hardly  likel}^,  considering  that  I  have 
known  her  since  we  were  children." 

Catrina  shrugged  her  shoulders  in  an  honest  if  some- 
what mannerless  refusal  to  discuss  the  side  issue.  She 
returned  to  the  main  question  with  characteristic  stub- 
bornness. 

"  I  shall  always  hate  her,"  she  said.  "  I  am  sorry  she 
is  your  cousin.  I  shall  always  regret  that,  and  I  shall 
always  hate  her.  There  is  something  wrong  about 
her— something  none  of  you  know  except  Karl  Stein- 
metz.     He  knows  every  thing— Herr  Steinmetz." 

"  He  knows  a  great  deal,"  admitted  Maggie. 

"  Yes  ;  and  that  is  why  he  is  sad.     Is  it  not  so  ?  " 

Catrina  sat  staring  into  the  fire,  her  strange,  earnest 
eyes  almost  fierce  in  their  concentration. 

"Did  she  pretend  that  she  loved  him  at  first?"  slie 
asked  suddenly. 


256  THE     SOWERS 

Receiving  no  answer,  she  looked  up  and  fixed  her 
searching-  gaze  on  the  face  of  her  companion.  Maggie 
was  looking  straight  in  front  of  her  in  the  direction  of 
the  fire,  but  not  with  eye^  focussed  to  see  any  thing  so 
near  at  hand.  She  bore  the  scrutiny  without  flinching. 
As  soon  as  Catrina's  ej^es  were  averted  the  mask-like 
stillness  of  her  features  relaxed. 

"  She  does  not  take  that  trouble  now,"  added  the  Rus- 
sian girl,  in  reply  to  her  own  question.  "  Did  3^ou  see 
her  to-night  Avhen  we  were  at  the  piano  ?  M.  de 
Cliauxville  was  talking  to  her.  Tlie}^  were  keeping  two 
conversations  going  at  the  same  time.  I  could  see  b}?- 
their  faces.  They  said  different  things  when  tlie  music 
was  loud.  I  hate  her.  She  is  not  true  to  Paul.  M.  de 
Chauxville  knows  something  about  her.  Thc}^  have 
something  in  common  which  is  not  known  to  Paul  or 
to  any  of  us  !  Why  do  you  not  speak  ?  Wliy  do 
you  sit  staring  into  the  fire  with  your  lips  so  close 
together  ?  " 

"  Because  I  do  not  think  that  we  shall  gain  any  thing 
by  discussing  Paul  and  his  wife.  It  is  no  business  of 
ours." 

Catrina  laughed — a  lamentable,  mirthless  laugh. 

"  Tliat  is  because  she  is  3^our  cousin  ;  and  he — he  is 
nothing  to  you.  You  do  not  care  whether  he  is  happy 
or  not !  " 

Catrina  had  turned  upon  lier  companion  fiercely^ 
Maggie  swung  round  in  her  chair  to  pick  up  her  brace- 
lets, which  had  slipped  from  her  knees  to  the  floor. 

"  You  exaggerate  things,"  she  said  quietly.  "  I  see 
no  reason  to  suppose  that  Paul  is  unha])py.  It  is  because 
you  have  taken  this  unreasoning  dislike  to  her." 

Slie  took  a  long  time  to  collect  three  bracelets.  Then 
she  rose  and  i)laced  tliem  on  the  dressing-table. 

*'  Do  you  want  me  to  go  ?  "  asked  Catrina,  in  her  blunt 
way. 


ANGLO-RUSSIAN  257 

"  No,"  answered  Maggie,  civilly  enough  ;  but  she 
extracted  a  couple  of  liair-pins  rather  obviousl}'. 

Catrina  heeded  the  voice  and  riot  the  action. 

"  You  English  are  all  alike,"  she  said.  "  You  hold 
one  at  arm's  length.  I  suppose  there  is  some  one  in 
En<>-land  for  whom  you  care — who  is  out  of  all  this — 
away  from  all  the  troubles  of  Russia.  This  has  nothing 
to  do  with  your  life.  It  is  only  a  passing  incident— a 
few  weeks  to  be  forgotten  when  you  go  back.  I  wonder 
what  he  is  like — the  man  in  England.  You  need  not 
tell  me.  I  am  not  curious  in  that  way.  I  am  not  ask- 
ing you  to  tell  me.  I  am  just  wondering.  For  I  know 
there  is  some  one.  I  knew  it  when  I  first  saw  you. 
You  are  so  quiet,  and  settled,  and  self-contained— like  a 
person  who  has- played  a  game  and  knows  for  certain 
that  it  is  lost  or  won,  and  does  not  want  to  play  again. 
Your  hair  is  very  pretty  ;  you  are  very  pretty,  you  quiet 
English  girl.  I  wonder  what  you  think  about  behind 
your  steady  eyes." 

"  I  ?  "  said  Maggie,  with  a  little  laugh.  "  Oh— I  think 
about  my  dresses,  and  the  new  fashions,  and  parties,  and 
all  the  things  that  girls  do  tliink  of." 

Catrina  shook  her  head.  She  looked  stubborn  and 
unconvinced.  Then  suddenly  she  changed  the  conver- 
sation. 

"  Do  you  like  M.  de  Chauxville  ?  "  she  asked. 

"No." 

"  Does  Paul  like  him?" 

"  I  don't  know." 

Catrina  looked  up  for  a  moment  onl}'.  Then  her 
eyes  returned  to  the  contemplation  of  the  burning  pine- 
logs. 

""  I  wonder  why  you  will  not  talk  of  Paul,"  she  said, 
in  a  voice  requiring  no  answer. 

Maggie  moved  rather  uneasily.      She   had  her  back 
turned  toward  Catrina. 
17 


258  THE     SOWERS 

"I  am  afraid  I  am  rather  a  dull  person,"  she  answered. 
"  I  have  not  much  to  say  about  any  body." 

"  And  nothing  about  Paul  ?  "  suggested  Catrina. 

"  Nothing.     We  were  talking  of  M.  de  Chauxville." 

"  Yes  ;  I  do  not  understand  M.  de  Chauxville.  He 
seems  to  me  to  be  the  incarnation  of  insincerity.  He 
poses — even  to  himself.  He  is  always  watching  for  the 
effect.  I  wonder  what  the  effect  of  himself  U2)on  him- 
self may  be." 

Maggie  laughed. 

"That  is  rather  complicated,"  she  said.  "It  requires 
working  out.  I  think  he  is  deeply  impressed  with  his 
own  astuteness.    If  he  were  simpler  he  would  be  cleverer." 

Catrina  was  afraid  of  Claude  de  Chauxville,  and, 
because  this  was  so,  she  stared  in  wonder  at  the  English 
girl,  who  dismissed  him  from  the  conversation  and  her 
thoughts  with  a  f-ew  careless  words  of  contempt.  Such 
minds  as  that  of  Miss  Delafield  were  quite  outside  the 
field  of  De  Chauxville's  influence,  while  that  Frenchman 
had  considerable  power  over  higlily  strung  and  imagi- 
native natures. 

Catrina  Lanovitch  had  begun  by  toleratiiig  liim — had 
proceeded  to  make  the  serious  blunder  of  permitting 
liim  to  be  impertinently  familiar,  and  was  now  exagger- 
ating in  her  own  mind  the  hold  that  he  had  over  her. 
She  did  not  actually  dislike  him.  So  few  people  had 
taken  the  trouble  or  found  the  expediency  of  endeavor- 
ing to  sympathize  with  her  or  understand  her  nature, 
that  she  was  unconsciousl}^  drawn  toward  this  man 
whom  she  now  feared. 

In  exaggerating  the  power  he  exercised  over  lierself 
she  somewhat  naturally  exaggerated  also  his  importance 
in  the  world  and  in  the  lives  of  tliose  around  liinu  She 
liad  imagined  him  all-powerful  ;  and  the  first  person  to 
whom  she  mentioned  his  name  dismissed  the  subject 
indift'erently.      Her   own   entire  sincerity    had   enabled 


ANGLO-llUSSIAN  259 

her  to  detect  the  insincerity  of  her  ally.  She  had  i)ur- 
posely  made  mention  of  the  weak  spot  which  slic  had 
discovered,  in  order  that  lier  observation  might  be  cor- 
roborated.    And  this  Maggie  liad  failed  to  do. 

Witli  the  slightest  encouragement,  Catrina  would  have 
told  her  companion  all  that  had  passed.  The  sympathy 
between  women  is  so  strong  that  there  is  usually  only  one 
man  who  is  safe  from  discussion.  In  Catrina's  case  that 
one  man  was  not  Claude  de  Chauxville.  But  Mau^ij^ie 
Delafield  was  of  different  material  from  this  impression- 
able, impulsive  Russian  girl.  She  was  essentiall}^  British 
in  her  capacit}^  for  steering  a  straight  personal  course 
through  the  shoals  and  quicksands  of  her  neighbors' 
affairs,  as  also  in  the  firm  grip  she  held  upon  her  own 
thoughts.  She  was  by  no  means  prepared  to  open  her 
mind  to  the  first  comer,  and  in  her  somewhat  slow-going 
English  estimate  of  such  matters  Catrina  was  as  yet 
little  more  than  the  first  comer. 

She  changed  the  subject,  and  tliey  talked  for  some 
time  on  indifferent  topics — such  topics  as  have  an  interest 
for  girls  ;  and  who  are  we  that  we  may  despise  them  ? 
We  jeer  very  grandly  at  girls'  talk,  and  promptly  return 
to  the  discussion  of  our  dogs  and  pipes  and  clothing. 

But  Catrina  was  not  happy  under  this  judicious 
treatment.  She  had  no  one  in  the  world  to  whom  she 
could  impart  a  thousand  doubts  and  questions — a  hun- 
dred grievances  and  one  great  grief.  And  it  was  just 
this  one  great  grief  of  which  Maggie  dreaded  the  men- 
tion. She  was  quite  well  aware  of  its  existence — had 
been  aware  of  it  for  some  time.  Karl  Steinmetz  had 
thrown  out  one  or  two  vague  hints  ;  everything  pointed 
to  it.  Maggie  could  hardly  be  ignorant  of  the  fact  that 
Catrina  had  grown  to  womanhood  loving  Paul. 

A  score  of  times  Catrina  approached  the  subject,  and 
with  imperturbable  steadfastness  Maggie  lield  to  her 
determination  that  Paul  was  not  to  be   discussed   by 


260  THE     SOWEKS 

tbem.  She  warded,  she  evaded,  she  ignored  with  a 
skill  which  baffled  the  simple  Russian.  She  had  a 
hundred  subterfuges — a  hundred  skilful  turns  and 
twists.  Where  women  learn  these  matters,  Heaven  only 
knows  !  All  our  experience  of  the  world,  our  falls  and 
stumbles  on  the  broken  road  of  life,  never  teach  us  some 
things  that  are  known  to  the  veriest  schoolgirl  standing 
on  the  smoother  footpath  that  women  tread. 

At  last  Catrina  rose  to  go.  Maggie  rose  also.  Women 
are  relentless  where  they  fight  for  their  own  secrets. 
Maggie  morally  turned  Catrina  out  of  the  room.  The 
two  girls  stood  looking  at  each  other  for  a  moment. 
They  had  nothing  in  common.  The  language  in  which 
they  understood  each  other  best  was  the  native  tongue 
of  neither.  Born  in  different  countries,  each  of  a  mixed 
race  with  no  one  racial  strain  in  common,  neither  creed, 
nor  education,  nor  similarity  of  thought  had  aught  to 
draw  them  together.  They  looked  at  each  other,  and 
God's  hand  touched  them.  They  both  loved  the  same 
man.     They  did  not  hate  each  other. 

"  Have  you  every  thing  you  want  ?  "  asked  Catrina. 

The  question  was  startling.  Catrina's  speech  was 
ever  abrupt.     At  first  Maggie  did  not  understand. 

"  Yes,  thanks,"  she  answered.  "  I  am  very  tired.  I 
suppose  it  is  the  snow." 

"Yes,"  said  Catrina  mechanically  ;  "  it  is  the  snow." 

She  went  toward  the  door,  and  there  she  paused. 

"  Does  Paul  love  her  ?  "  she  asked  abruptly. 

Maggie  made  no  answer  ;  and,  as  washer  habit,  Catrina 
replied  to  her  own  question. 

"You  know  he  does  not — you  know^  he  does  not!" 
she  said. 

Then  she  went  out,  without  waiting  for  an  answer,  clos- 
ing the  door  behind  her.    The  closed  door  heard  the  repl}^ 

"It  will  not  matter  much,"  said  Maggie,  "  so  long  as 
he  never  finds  it  out." 


CHAPTER  XXX 

WOLF  ! 

The  Countess  Lanovitch  never  quitted  her  own  apart- 
ments before  mid-day.  She  had  acquired  a  Parisian 
habit  of  being  invisible  until  luncheon-time.  The  two 
girls  left  the  castle  of  Thors  in  a  sleigh  with  one  attend- 
ant at  ten  o'clock  in  order  to  reacli  the  hut  selected  for 
liinclieon  b}^  mid-day.  Etta  did  not  accompany  them. 
She  had  a  slight  headache. 

At  eleven  o'clock  Claude  do  Chauxville  returned  alone, 
on  liorseback.  After  the  sportsmen  had  separated,  each 
to  gain  his  prearranged  position  in  the  forest,  he  had 
tripped  over  his  rifle,  seriously  injuring  the  delicate 
sio-htinix  mechanism.  He  found  (he  told  the  servant 
who  opened  the  door  for  him)  that  he  had  just  time  to 
return  for  another  rifle  before  the  operation  of  closing 
in  on  the  bears  was  to  begin. 

"  If  Madame  the  Princess,"  was  visible,  he  went  on, 
would  the  servant  tell  her  that  M.  de  Chauxville  was 
waiting  in  the  library  to  assure  her  that  there  was  abso- 
lutely no  danger  to  be  anticipated  in  the  day's  sport. 
The  princess,  it  would  appear,  was  absurdly  anxious 
about  the  welfare  of  her  husband— an  experienced  hunter 
and  a  dead  shot. 

Claude  de  Chauxville  then  went  to  the  library,  where 
he  waited,  booted,  spurred,  rifle  in  hand,  for  Etta. 

After  a  lapse  of  five  minutes  or  more,  the  door  was 
opened,  and  Etta  came  leisurely  into  the  room. 

"  Well  ?"    she  enquired  indilferentl}^ 


262  THE     SOWERS 

De  Clianxville  bowed.  lie  walked  past  her  and  closed 
the  door,  which  she  happened  to  have  left  open. 

Then  he  returned  and  stood  b}^  the  window,  leaning 
gracefully  on  his  rifle.  His  attitude,  his  hunting-suit, 
his  great  top-boots,  made  rather  a  picturesque  object  of 
him. 

"  Well  ?"  repeated  Etta,  almost  insolently. 

"It  would  have  been  wiser  to  have  married  me,"  said 
De  Chauxville  darkly. 

Etta  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"  Because  I  understand  you  better  ;  I  Jcnow  you  better 
than  your  husband." 

Etta  turned  and  glanced  at  the  clock. 

"Have  you  come  back  from  the  bear-hunt  to  tell  me 
this,  or  to  avoid  the  bears  ?  "  she  asked. 

De  Chauxville  frowned.  A  man  w^ho  has  tasted  fear 
does  not  like  a  question  of  his  courage. 

"  I  have  come  to  tell  you  that  and  other  things,"  he 
answered. 

He  looked  at  her  with  his  sinister  smile  and  a  little 
upward  jerk  of  the  head.  He  extended  his  open  hand, 
palm  upward,  with  the  fingers  slightly  crooked. 

"I  hold  you,  madame,"  he  said — "I  hold  you  in  my 
hand.  You  are  my  slave,  despite  your  brave  title  ;  my 
thing,  my  plaything,  despite  your  servants,  and  your 
great  houses,  and  your  husband  !  When  I  have  finished 
telling  you  all  that  I  have  to  tell,  you  will  understand. 
You  will  pei-haps  thank  me  for  being  merciful." 

Etta  laughed  defiantly. 

"  You  are  afraid  of  Paul,"  she  cried.  "  You  are 
afraid  of  Karl  Steinmetz  ;  you  will  presently  be  afraid 
of  me." 

"I  think  not,"  said  De  Chauxville  coolly.  The  two 
names  just  mentioned  were  certainl}^  not  of  pleasant 
import  in  his  ears,  but  he  was  not  going  to  let  a  woman 
know    that.     This    man    had    played   dangerous   cards 


WOLF  !  2G3 

before  now.  He  was  not  at  all  sure  of  his  ground.  lie 
did  not  know  what  Etta's  position  was  in  regard  to 
Steinmotz.  Behind  the  defiant  woman  there  lurked 
the  broad  sliadow  of  the  man  who  never  defied  ;  who 
knew  many  things,  but  was  ignorant  of  fear. 

Unlike  Karl  Steiimictz,  De  Chauxville  was  not  a  bold 
player.  ITe  liked  to  be  sure  of  his  trick  before  he  threw 
down  his  trump  card.  His  method  was  not  above  sus- 
picion :  he  liked  to  know  what  cards  his  advcrsar}^  held, 
and  one  may  be  sure  that  he  was  not  above  peeping. 

"  Karl  Steinmetz  is  no  friend  of  yours,"  he  said. 

Etta  did  not  answer.  She  was  tli inking  of  the  con- 
versation she  had  had  with  Steinmetz  in  Petersburg. 
She  was  wondering  whether  the  friendship  he  had 
offered — the  solid  thing  as  he  called  it — was  not  better 
than  the  love  of  tliis  man. 

*'  I  have  information  now,"  went  on  De  Chauxville 
"  which  would  have  made  you  my  wife,  had   I   had   it 
sooner." 

"I  think  not,"  said  the  lady  insolently.  She  had 
dealt  with  such  men  before.  Hers  was  the  beauty  that 
appealed  to  De  Chauxville  and  such  as  he.  It  is  not 
the  beautiful  women  w^ho  see  the  best  side  of  human 
nature. 

"  Even  now,"  went  on  the  Frenchman,  "  now  that  I 
know  you — I  still  love  you.  You  are  the  only  woman 
I  shall  ever  love." 

*'  Indeed  ! "  murmured  the  lady,  quite  unmoved. 

"  Yes  ;  although  in  a  way  I  despise  you — now  that 
I  know  you." 

"Mon  Dieu  !  "  exclaimed  Etta.  "If  you  have  any 
thing  to  say,  please  say  it.  I  have  no  time  to  probe 
your  mysteries — to  discover  your  parables.  You  know 
me  well  enough,  perhaps,  to  be  aware  that  I  am  not  to 
be  frightened  by  your  cheap  charlatanism." 

"Iknow^  you  well  enough,"  retorted   De   Chauxville 


264  THE     SOWERS 

lionrsoly,  *'to  be  aware  tliat  it  was  yon  Avho  sold  the 
Charity  League  papers  to  Vassili  in  Paris.  I  know 
you  well  enough,  madame,  to  be  aware  of  your  present 
position  in  regard  to  your  husband.  If  I  say  a  word  in 
the  right  quarter  you  would  never  leave  Russia  alive. 
I  have  merely  to  say  to  Catrina  Lanovitch  that  it  was 
3'ou  who  banished  lier  father  for  your  own  gain.  I 
have  merely  to  hand  your  name  in  to  certain  of  the 
Charity  League  party,  and  even  your  husband  could  not 
save  you." 

He  had  gradually  approached  her,  and  uttered  the  last 
words  face  to  face,  his  eyes  close  to  hers.  She  held  her 
head  up — erect,  defiant  still. 

"So  you  see,  madame,"  he  said,  "j'-ou  belong  to  me.'* 

She  smiled. 

"  Hand  and  foot,"  he  added.     "  But  I  am  soft-hearted." 

He  slirugged  his  shoulders  and  turned  away. 

"  What  will  .3^ou  ?  "  he  said,  looking  out  of  the  win- 
dow.    "  I  love  5^ou." 

"  Nonsense  !  " 

He  turned  slowly  round. 

"What?" 

"Nonsense  !"  repeated  Etta.  "You  love  power  ;  you 
are  a  bully.  You  love  to  please  your  own  vanity  by 
thinking  that  you  have  me  in  your  power.  I  am  not 
afraid  of  you." 

De  Chauxville  leaned  gracefully  against  the  window. 
He  still  held  his  rifle. 

"  Reflect  a  little,"  he  said,  with  his  cold  smile.  "  It 
would  appear  that  you  do  not  quite  realize  the  situation. 
Women  rarely  realize  situations  in  time.  Our  friend — 
3^our  husband — has  many  of  the  English  idiosyncrasies. 
He  has  all  the  narrow-minded  notions  of  honor  which 
obtain  in  tliat  country.  Added  to  this,  I  suspect  him 
of  possessing  a  truly  Slavonic  fire  which  he  keeps 
under.     '^  A   smouldering  fire '  You  know,  madame. 


WOLF !  265 

our  French  proverb.  lie  is  not  the  man  to  take  a 
rational  and  broatl-mindcd  view  of  your  little  trans- 
action with  M.  Vassili  ;  more  especiallj^  perhaps,  as  it 
banished  his  friend  Stepan  Lanovitch — the  owner  of  this 
liouse,  ])y  the  way.  Ilis  reception  of  the  news  I  have 
to  tell  him  would  be  unpleasatit — for  you." 

"  What  do  you  want  ?  "  interrupted  Etta.     "  Money  ? " 
"  I  am  not  a  needy  adventurer." 

<'AndIam  not  such  a  fool,  M.  de  Chauxvillo,  as  to 
allow  myself  to  be  dragged  into  a  vulgar  intrigue, 
borrowed  from  a  French  novel,  to  satisfy  your  vanity." 
De  Chauxville's  dull  eyes  suddenly  Hashed. 
"  I  will  trouble  you  to  believe,  madame,"  he  said,  in 
a  low,  concentrated  voice,  "that  such  a  thought  never 
entered  my  head.  A  De  Chauxville  is  not  a  com- 
mercial traveller,  if  you  please.  No  ;  it  may  surprise 
yon,  but  my  feeling  for  you  has  more  good  in  it-  than 
you  would  seem  capable  of  inspiring.  God  only  knows 
how  it  is  that  a  bad  woman  can  inspire  a  good  love." 

Etta  looked  at  him  in  amazement.  She  did  not 
always  understand  De  Chauxville.  No  matter  for  sur- 
prise, perhaps  ;  for  he  did  not  always  understand 
himself. 

"  Then  what  do  you  want  ?  "  she  asked. 
"In  the  meantime,  implicit  obedience." 
"  What  are  you  going  to  use  me  for?" 
"I  have  ends,"   replied  Claude  de  Chauxville,  who 
had  regained  his  usual  half -mocking  composure,  "that 
you  will  serve.     But  they  will  be  jour  ends  as  well  as 
mine.     You  will  profit  by  them.     I  will  take  very  good 
care  that  you  come  to  no  harm,  for  you  are  the  ultimate 
object  of  all  this.     At  the  end  of  it  all  I  see  only— j^ou." 
Etta  shrugged  her  shoulders.     It  is  to  be  presumed 
that  she  was  absolutely  heartless.     Many  women  are. 
It  is  when  a  heartless  woman  has  brains  that  one  hears 
of  her. 


266  THE     SOWERS 

*'  What  if  I  refuse  ?  "  asked  Etta,  keeiih^  aware  of  the 
fact  that  this  man  was  handicapped  by  his  love  for  her. 

"  Tlien  I  will  force  you  to  obedience." 

Etta  raised  her  delicate  eyebrows  insolently. 

"  Ah  !  » 

"Yes,"  said  Do  Chauxville,  with  suppressed  anger; 
"I  will  force  jou  to  obc}^  nie." 

The  princess  looked  at  him  with  her  little  mocking 
smile.  Siie  raised  one  hand  to  her  head  with  a  reflective 
air,  as  if  a  hair-pin  were  of  greater  importance  than  his 
words.  She  had  dressed  herself  rather  carefully  for 
this  interview.  She  never  for  a  moment  overlooked  the 
fact  that  she  was  a  woman,  and  beautiful.  She  did  not 
allow  him  to  forget  it  eitln  r. 

Her  mood  of  outraged  virtue  was  now  suddeidy 
thrown  into  the  backgi'ound  b}^  a  phase  of  open  coquetr}'. 
Beneath  her  eyelids  she  watched  for  tlie  effect  of  her 
pretty,  provoking  attitude  on  the  man  who  loved  her. 
She  was  on  her  own  territory  at  this  work,  playing  her 
own  game  ;  and  she  was  more  alarmed  by  De  Chaux- 
ville's  imperturbability  than  by  aii}^  thing  he  had  said. 

"  You  have  a  strange  wa}^  of  proving  the  truth  of  your 
own  statements." 

''What  statements?" 

She  gave  a  little  laugh.  Her  attitude,  her  glance,  the 
cunning  display  of  a  perfect  figure,  the  laugh,  the  whole 
woman,  was  the  incarnation  of  practised  coquetrj^  She 
did  not  admit,  even  to  herself,  that  she  was  afraid  of 
De  Chauxville.  But  she  was  playing  her  best  cards,  in 
her  best  manner.     She  had  never  known  them  fail. 

Claude  de  Chauxville  was  a  little  white  about  the  lips. 
His  eyelids  flickered,  but  by  an  effort  he  controlled  him- 
self, and  she  did  not  see  the  light  in  his  eyes  for  which 
siie  looked. 

"  If  3^ou  mean,"  he  said  coldh^  "the  statement  that  I 
made  to  you  before  you  were  married — namely,  tltfit  I 


WOLF  !  267 

love  JOM — I  am  quite  content  to  leave  the  proof  till  tlie 
future.     I  know  what  I  am  about,  madame." 

He  took  his  watch  from  his  pocket  and  consulted  it. 

"  I  must  go  in  five  minutes,"  he  said.  "  I  have  a  few 
instructions  to  give  j^ou,  to  which  I  must  beg  your  care- 
ful attention." 

lie  looked  up,  meeting  Etta's  somewhat  sullen  gaze 
with  a  smile  of  triumph. 

"It  is  essential,"  lie  Went  on,  "that  I  be  invited  to 
Osterno.  I  do  not  want  to  stay  there  long;  indeed,  I 
do  not  care  to.  But  I  must  see  the  place.  I  dare  say 
you  can  compass  the  invitation,  madame  ?  " 

"  It  will  be  difficult." 

"And  therefore  worthy  of  your  endeavor.  I  have 
the  greatest  regard  for  your  diplomatic  skill.  I  leave  the 
matter  in  your  hands,  princess." 

Etta  shrugged  her  shoulders  and  looked  past  him  out 
of  the  window.  De  Chauxville  was  considering  her 
face  carefully. 

"  Another  point  to  be  remembered,"  he  went  on,  "is 
your  husband's  daily  life  at  Osterno.  The  prince  is  not 
above  suspicion  ;  the  authorities  are  watching  him.  He 
is  suspected  of  propagating  revolutionary  ideas  among 
the  peasantry.  I  should  like  you  to  find  out  as  much  as 
yon  can.  Perhaps  you  know  already.  Perhaps  he  has 
told  you,  princess.  I  know  that  beautiful  face  !  He 
has  told  you  !  Good  !  Does  he  take  an  interest  in  the 
peasants  ?" 

Etta  did  not  answer. 

"  Kindly  give  me  your  attention,  madame.  Does  the 
prince  take  an  interest  in  the  peasants?" 

"Yes." 

"  An  active  interest  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Have  3^ou  any  details  ?  " 

"  No,"  answered  Etta. 


268  THE    SOWERS 

"  Then  you  will  wntch  liim,  and  procure  those  details." 

Etta's  face  was  defiant  and  jxale.  De  Chauxville 
never  took  his  eyes  from  it. 

"  I  have  undertaken  a  few  small  commissions  for  an 
old  friend  of  yours,  M.  Vassili,  whom  you  obliged  once 
before  !  "  he  said  ;  and  the  defiance  faded  from  her 
eyes. 

"The  authorities  cannot,  in  these  disturbed  times, 
afford  to  tolerate  princes  of  an  independent  turn  of 
mind.  Such  men  are  apt  to  make  the  peasant  think 
himself  more  important  than  he  is.  I  dare  say,  madame, 
that  you  are  already  tired  of  Russia.  It  might  perhaps 
serve  your  ends  if  this  countr}'-  was  made  a  little  too  hot 
for  your  husband,  eh  ?  I  see  your  proud  lips  quivering, 
princess  !  It  is  w^ell  to  keep  the  lips  under  control. 
We,  wdio  deal  in  diplomacy,  know  where  to  look  for 
such  signs.  Yes  ;  I  dare  say  I  can  get  you  out  of 
Russia — for  ever.  But  you  must  be  obedient.  You 
must  reconcile  yourself  to  the  knowledge  that  you  have 
met — your  master." 

He  bowed  in  his  graceful  way,  spreading  out  his 
hands  in  mock  humility.  Etta  did  not  answ^er  him. 
For  the  moment  she  could  see  no  outlet  to  this  maze  of 
trouble,  and  jet  she  was  conscious  of  not  fearing  De 
Chauxville  so  much  as  she  feared  Karl  Steinmetz. 

"  A  lenient  master,"  pursued  the  Frenchman,  whose 
vanity  was  tickled  by  the  word.  "I  do  not  ask  much. 
One  thing  is  to  be  invited  to  Osterno,  that  I  may  be 
near  you.  The  other  is  a  humble  request  for  details  of 
your  daily  life,  that  I  may  think  of  you  when  absent." 

Etta  drew  in  her  lips,  moistening  them  as  if  they  had 
suddenly  become  parched. 

De  Chauxville  glanced  at  her  and  moved  toward  the 
door.  He  paused  with  his  fingers  on  the  handle,  and 
looking  back  over  his  shoulder  he  said  : 

"  Have  I  made  myself  quite  clear  ?  " 


WOLF  !  2G9 

Etta  was  still  looking  out  of  the  ■window  with  hard, 
angry  eyes.     She  took  no  notice  of  the  question. 

De  Chauxvillc  turned  tlic  liandle. 

"  Again  let  me  impress  upon  you  the  advisability  of 
implicit  obedience,"  he  said,  with  delicate  insolence.  "  I 
mentioned  the  Charity  League  ;  but  tliat  is  not  my 
strongest  claim  upon  your  attention.  I  have  another 
interesting  little  detail  of  j^our  life,  which  I  will  reserve 
until  another  time." 

He  closed  the  door  behind  him,  leaving  Etta  white- 
lipped. 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

A    DANGEROUS    EXPEEIMENT 

A  Russian  forest  in  winter  is  one  of  nature's  places 
of  worship.  There  are  some  such  places  in  the  world, 
where  nature  seems  to  stand  in  the  presence  of  the 
Deity;  a  sunrise  at  sea  ;  night  on  a  snow-clad  mountain  ; 
mid-day  in  a  Russian  forest  in  winter.  These  places 
and  these  times  are  good  for  convalescent  atheists  and 
such  as  pose  as  unbelievers — the  cheapest  form  of 
notoriety. 

Paul  had  requested  Catriiia  and  Maggie  to  drive  as 
quietly  as  possible  through  the  forest.  Tlie  warning 
was  unnecessary,  for  the  stillness  of  snow  is  infectious, 
while  tlie  beauty  of  the  scene  seemed  to  command 
silence.  As  usual,  Catrina  drove  without  bells.  The 
one  attendant  on  his  perch  behind  w^as  a  fur-clad  statue 
of  servitude  and  silence.  Maggie,  leaning  back,  hidden 
to  the  eyes  in  her  sables,  had  nothing  to  say  to  her  com- 
panion. The  wa}^  lay  through  forests  of  pine — track- 
less, motionless,  virgin.  The  sun,  filtering  through  the 
snow-laden  branches,  cast  a  subdued  golden  light  upon 
the  ruddy  upright  trunks  of  the  trees.  At  times  a 
willow-grouse,  white  as  the  snow,  light  and  graceful  on 
the  wing,  rose  from  the  branch  where  he  had  been 
laughing  to  his  mate  with  a  low,  cooing  laugh,  and 
fluttered  away  over  the  trees. 

"  A  kooropatka,"  said  Catrina,  wlio  knew  the  life  of 
the  forest  almost  as  well  as  Paul,  whose  very  existence 
was  wrapped  up  in  these  things. 

Far  over  the  summits  of  the  pines  a  snipe  seemed  to 


A    DANGEROUS    EXPERIMENT  271 

be  wbeeling  a  sentinel  ronncl.  lie  followed  them  as 
they  sped  along,  calling  out  all  the  wliile  his  deep  warn- 
ing note,  like  that  of  a  lamb  crouching  beneath  a  hedge 
where  the  wind  is  not  tempered. 

Once  or  twice  they  heard  the  dismal  howl  of  a  M^olf — 
tlie  most  meianclioly,  the  weirdest,  the  most  hopeless  of 
nature's  calls.  The  whole  forest  seemed  to  be  on  the 
alert — astir  and  in  suspense.  The  wolf,  disturbed  in  his 
lair,  no  doubt  heard  and  undei'stood  the  cry  of  the 
watchful  snipe  and  the  sudden  silence  of  the  willow- 
grouse,  who  loves  to  sit  and  laugh  when  all  is  safe.  A 
cluuisy  capercailzie,  swinging  along  over  the  trees  with 
a  great  flap  and  rush  of  wings,  seemed  to  be  intent  on 
his  own  solitary,  majestic  business — a  veiy  king  among 
the  fowls  of  the  air. 

Amid  the  topmost  branches  of  the  pines  the  wind 
whispered  and  stirred  like  a  child  in  sleep  ;  but  beneath 
all  was  still.  Every  branch  stood  motionless  beneath  its 
burden  of  snow.  The  air  was  thin,  exhilarating,  bril- 
liant— like  dry  champagne.  It  seemed  to  send  the  blood 
coursing  through  the  veins  with  a  very  joy  of  life. 

Catrina  noted  all  these  things  while  cleverly  handling 
her  ponies.  They  spoke  to  her  with  a  thousand  voices. 
She  had  roamed  in  these  same  forests  with  Paul,  who 
loved  them  and  understood  them  as  she  did. 

iMaggie,  in  the  midst  as  it  were  of  a  revelation,  leaned 
back  and  wondered  at  it  all.  She,  too,  was  thinking  of 
Paul,  the  owner  of  these  boundless  forests.  She  under- 
stood him  better  now.  This  drive  had  revealed  to  her  a 
part  of  his  nature  which  had  rather  puzzled  her — a  large, 
simple,  quiet  strength  which  had  developed  and  grown 
to  maturity  beneath  these  trees.  We  are  all  part  of 
what  we  have  seen.  "We  all  carry  with  us  through  life 
somewhat  of  the  scenes  through  which  we  passed  in 
cliildhood. 

Maggie  knew   now  where   Paul  had  learnt  the  quiet 


273  THE     SOWERS 

concentration  of  mind,  tlie  absorption  in  his  own  affairs, 
the  complete  lack  of  interest  in  the  business  of  his  neigh- 
bor which  made  him  different  from  other  men.  He  had 
learnt  these  things  at  first  hand  from  God's  creatures. 
These  forest-dwellers  of  fur  and  feather  went  about 
their  affairs  in  the  same  absorbed  waj-,  with  tlie  same 
complete  faith,  the  same  desire  to  leave  and  be  left 
alone.  The  simplicity  of  Nature  was  his.  His  only 
craft  was  forest  craft. 

"  Now  you  know,"  said  Catrina,  when  they  reached 
the  hut,  "  wliy  I  hate  Petersburg." 

Maggie  nodded.  Tlie  effect  of  the  forest  was  still 
upon  her.     She  did  not  want  to  talk. 

The  woman  who  received  them,  the  wife  of  a  keeper, 
had  prepared  in  a  rough  way  for  their  reception.  She 
had  a  large  fire  and  bowls  of  warm  milk.  The  doors 
and  windows  had  been  thrown  wide  open  by  Paul's 
orders.  He  wanted  to  spare  Maggie  too  intimate  an 
acquaintance  with  a  Russian  interior.  The  hut  was 
really  a  shooting-box  built  b}^  Paul  some  years  earlier, 
and  inhabited  by  a  head-keeper,  one  learned  in  the  ways 
of  bear  and  wolf  and  lynx.  The  large  dwelling-room 
had  been  carefully  scrubbed.  There  was  a  smell  of  pine- 
wood  and  soap.  The  table,  ready  spread  with  a  simple 
luncheon,  took  up  nearly  the  whole  of  the  room. 

While  the  two  girls  were  warming  themselves,  a 
keeper  came  to  the  door  of  the  hut  and  asked  to  see 
Catrina.  He  stood  in  the  little  door-way,  completely 
filling  it,  and  explained  that  he  could  not  come  in,  as  the 
buckles  and  straps  of  his  snow-shoes  were  clogged  and 
frozen.  He  wore  the  long  Norwegian  snow-shoes,  and 
was  lield  to  be  the  quickest  runner  in  the  country. 

Catrina  had  a  long  conversation  with  the  man,  Avho 
stood  hatless,  ruddy,  and  shJ^ 

"It  is,"  she  then  explained  to  Maggie,  "  Paul's  own 
man,  who  always   loads  for  liim  and  carries  his  spare 


A    DANGEROUS    EXPERIMENT  273 

gun.  lie  has  soiit  him  to  toll  us  that  the  gauio  has 
been  riiigcil,  aiul  that  the  beaters  will  close  in  on  a  place 
called  the  Scliapkii  Clearing,  where  there  is  a  woodman's 
refuge.  If  we  care  to  put  on  our  snow-shoes,  this  man 
will  guide  us  to  the  clearing  and  take  care  of  us  till  the 
battue  is  over." 

Of  course  Maggie  welcomed  the  proposal  with  delight, 
and  after  a  hasty  luncheon  the  three  glided  off  through 
the  forest  as  noiselessly  as  they  had  come.  After  a  tir- 
ing walk  of  an  hour  and  more  they  came  to  the  clearing, 
and  were  duly  concealed  in  the  hut. 

No  one,  the  keeper  told  the  ladies,  except  Paul,  knew 
of  their  presence  in  the  little  w^ooden  house.  The 
arrangements  of  the  beat  had  been  slightly  altered  at 
the  last  moment  after  the  hunters  had  separated.  The 
keeper  lighted  a  small  fire  and  shyly  attended  to  the 
ladies,  removing  their  snow-shoes  with  clumsy  fingers. 
He  closed  the  door,  and  arranged  a  branch  of  larch 
across  the  window  so  that  they  could  stand  near  it  with- 
out being  seen. 

They  had  not  been  there  long  before  De  Chauxville 
appeared.  He  moved  quickly  across  the  clearing,  skim- 
ming over  the  snow  with  long,  sweeping  strides.  Two 
keepers  followed  him,  and  after  having  shown  him  the 
rough  hiding-place  prepared  for  him,  silently  withdrew 
to  their  places.  Soon  Karl  Steinmetzcame  from  another 
direction,  and  took  up  his  position  rather  nearer  to  the 
hut,  in  a  thicket  of  pine  and  dwarf  oak.  He  was  only 
twenty  yards  away  from  the  refuge  where  the  girls  were 
concealed. 

It  was  not  long  before  Paul  came.  He  was  quite 
alone,  and  suddenly  appeared  at  the  far  end  of  the  clear- 
ing, in  very  truth  a  mighty  hunter,  standing  nearly  seven 
feet  on  his  snow-shoes.  One  rifle  he  carried  in  his  hand, 
another  slung  across  his  back.  It  was  like  a  silent  scene 
on  a  stage.  The  snow-white  clearing,  with  long-drawn 
18 


274  THE     SOWEES 

tracks  across  it  where  the  snow-shoes  had  passed,  the 
still  trees,  the  brilliant  sun,  and  the  blue  depths  of  the 
forest  behind  ;  while  Paul,  like  the  hero  of  some  grim 
Arctic  saga,  a  huge  fur-clad  Northern  giant,  stood  alone 
in  the  desolation. 

From  his  attitude  it  was  apparent  that  he  Avas  listen- 
Ing.  It  was  probable  that  the  cries  of  the  birds  and  the 
distant  howl  of  a  wolf  told  his  practised  ears  how  near 
the  beaters  were.  He  presently  moved  across  to  where 
De  Chauxville  was  hidden,  spoke  some  words  of  advice 
or  warning  to  him,  and  pointed  with  his  glovecl  hand  in 
the  direction  whence  the  game  might  be  expected  to 
come. 

It  subsequentl}^  transpired  that  Paul  was  asking  De 
Chauxville  the  whereabouts  of  Steinmetz,  who  had 
gained  his  place  of  concealment  unobserved  by  either. 
De  Chauxville  could  give  him  no  information,  and  Paul 
went  away  to  his  post  dissatisfied.  Karl  Steinmetz  must 
have  seen  them  ;  he  must  have  divined  the  subject  of 
their  conversation  ;  but  he  remained  hidden  and  gave 
no  sign. 

Paul's  post  was  behind  a  fallen  tree,  and  the  watchers 
in  the  hut  could  see  him,  while  he  was  completely  hidden 
from  any  animal  that  might  enter  the  open  clearing  from 
the  far  end.  He  turned  and  looked  hard  at  the  hut  ; 
but  the  larch  branch  across  the  window  eifectually  pre- 
vented him  from  discovering  whether  any  one  was  behind 
it  or  not. 

Thus  they  all  waited  in  suspense.  A  blackcock 
skimmed  across  the  open  space  and'  disappeared  unmo- 
lested. A  wolf— gray,  gaunt,  sneaking,  and  lurching  in 
his  gait— trotted  into  the  clearing  and  stood  listening 
with  evil  lips  drawn  back.  The  two  girls  watched  hii^ 
breathlessly.  When  he  trotted  on  unmolested,  they 
drew  a  deep  breath  as  if  they  had  been  under  water. 
Paul,  with  his  two  rifles  laid  before  him,  watched  the 


A   DANGEROUS    EXPERIMENT  2/5 

wolf  depart  with  a  smile.  The  girls  could  see  the  smile, 
and  from  it  learnt  somewhat  of  the  man.  The  keeper 
beside  them  gave  a  little  laugh  and  looked  to  the 
hammers  of  his  rifle. 

And  still  there  was  no  sound.  It  was  still,  unreal, 
and  like  a  scene  on  the  stage  The  birds,  skimming  ovc'- 
the  tops  of  the  trees  from  time  to  time,  threw  in  as  it 
were  a  note  of  fear  and  suspense.  There  was  breath- 
lessness  in  the  air.  A  couple  of  hares,  like  white 
shadows  in  their  spotless  winter  coats,  shot  from  covert 
to  covert  across  the  open  ground. 

Then  suddenly  the  keeper  gave  a  little  grunt  and  held 
up  his  hand,  listening  with  parted  lips  and  eager  eyes. 
There  was  a  distinct  sound  of  breaking  branches  and 
crackling  underwood. 

The}^  could  see  Paul  cai;  ;(nisly  rise  from  his  knees  to 
a  crouching  attitude.  They  followed  the  direction  of 
his  gaze,  and  before  them  the  monarch  of  these  forests 
stood  in  clumsy  might.  A  bear  had  shambled  to  the 
edge  of  the  clearing  and  was  standing  upright,  growling 
and  grumbling  to  himself,  his  great  paws  waving  from 
side  to  side,  his  shaggy  head  thrust  forward  with  a 
recurring  jerk  singularl}^  suggestive  of  a  dandy  with  an 
uncomfortable  collar.  These  bears  of  Northern  Russia 
have  not  the  reputation  of  being  very  fierce  unless  they 
are  aroused  from  their  winter  quarters,  when  their  wrath 
knows  no  bounds  and  their  courage  recognizes  no  danger. 
An  angry  bear  is  afraid  of  no  living  man  or  beast. 
Moreover,  these  kings  of  the  Northern  forests  are  huge 
beasts,  capable  of  smothering  a  strong  man  by  falling 
on  him  and  lying  there — a  death  which  has  come  to 
more  than  one  daring  hunter.  The  beast's  favorite 
method  of  dealing  with  his  foe  is  to  claw  him  to  death, 
or  else  hug  him  till  his  ribs  are  snapped  and  crushed 
into  his  vitals. 

The  bear  stood   })oking  his  head  and  looking  about 


276  THE     SOWERS 

with  little,  fiery,  bloodshot  eyes  for  sonietliing  to 
destroy.  His  rage  was  manifest,  and  in  his  strength 
he  was  a  grand  sight.  The  majesty  of  power  and  a 
dauntless  courage  were  his. 

It  Avas  De  Chauxville's  shot,  and  while  keeping  liis 
eye  on  the  bear,  Paul  glanced  impatiently  over  his 
slioulder  from  time  to  time,  wondering  why  the  French- 
man did  not  fire.  Tlie  bear  was  a  huge  one,  and  would 
probably  carry  three  bullets  and  still  be  a  dangerous 
adversar}^ 

The  keeper  muttered  impatiently. 

Tliey  were  watching  Paul  breathlessly^  The  beai 
was  approaching  him.  It  would  not  be  safe  to  defer 
firing  another  second. 

Suddenly  the  keeper  gave  a  short  exclamation  of 
astonishment  and  threw  up  his  rifle. 

There  Avas  another  bear  behind  Paul,  shambling 
toward  him,  unseen  by  him.  All  his  attention  was 
riveted  on  the  huge  brute  forty  yards  in  front  of  him. 
It  Avas  Claude  de  Chauxville's  task  to  protect  Paul  from 
any  flank  or  rear  attack  ;  and  Claude  de  Chauxville  Avas 
peering  over  his  covert,  Avatching  Avith  blanched  face 
the  second  bear  ;  and  lifting  no  hand,  making  no  sign. 
The  bear  Avas  Avithin  a  fcAV  yards  of  Paul,  Avho  was 
crouching  behind  the  fallen  pine  and  noAv  raising  his 
rifle  to  his  shoulder. 

In  a  flash  of  comprehension  the  two  girls  saAV  all, 
through  the  panes  of  the  closed  Avindow.  It  Avas  still 
singularly  like  a  scene  on  the  stage.  The  second  bear 
raised  his  poAverful  fore-paws  as  he  approached.  One 
blow  Avould  tear  open  Paul's  brain. 

A  terrific  report  sent  the  girls  staggering  back,  for 
a  moment  paralyzing  thought.  The  keeper  had  fired 
through  the  window,  both  barrels  almost  simultaneously. 
It  Avas  a  question  how  much  lead  Avould  bring  the  bear 
down  before  he  covered   the  intervening  dozen  yards. 


TH1{0\VING    THE   KIFLE    AT   DE    CH AUXVILT-ES   FEET,    TURNED 
ABRUPTLY  AWAY  " 


A    DANGEROUS    EXPERIMENT  277 

In  the  confined  space  of  the  liut,  the  report  of  tne  heavy 
double  cliarge  was  like  that  of  a  cannon  ;  moreover, 
Steinmetz,  twenty  yards  away,  had  fired  at  the  same 
moment. 

The  room  was  filled  with  smoke.  The  two  girls  were 
blinded  for  an  instant.  Then  they  saw  the  keeper  tear 
open  the  door  and  disai)pear.  The  cold  air  through  the 
shattered  casement  was  a  sudden  relief  to  their  lungs, 
choked  with  sulphur  and  the  fumes  of  spent  powder. 

In  a  flash  they  were  out  of  the  open  door  ;  and  there 
again,  with  the  suddenness  of  a  panorama,  they  saw 
another  picture — Paul  kneeling  in  the  middle  of  the 
clearing,  taking  careful  aim  at  the  retreating  form  of 
the  first  bear.  They  saw  the  puff  of  blue  smoke  rise 
from  his  rifle,  they  heard  the  sharp  report ;  and  the  bear 
rolled  over  on  its  face. 

Stein metz  and  the  keeper  were  walking  toward  Paul. 
Claude  de  Chauxville,  standing  outside  his  screen  of 
brushwood,  was  staring  with  wide,  fear-stricken  eyes  at 
the  hut  which  he  had  thought  empty.  He  did  not  know 
that  there  were  three  people  behind  him,  watching  him. 
What  had  they  seen  ?     What  had  they  understood  ? 

Catrina  and  Maggie  ran  toward  Paul.  They  were  on 
snow-shoes,  and  made  short  w^ork  of  the  intervening  dis- 
tance. 

Paul  had  risen  to  his  feet.  His  face  was  grave. 
There  was  a  singular  gleam  in  his  eyes,  which  was  not  a 
gleam  of  mere  excitement  such  as  the  chase  brings  into 
some  men's  eyes. 

Steinmetz  looked  at  him  and  said  nothing.  For  a 
moment  Paul  stood  still.  He  looked  round  him,  noting 
with  experienced  glance  the  lay  of  the  whole  incident — 
the  dead  form  of  the  bear  ten  yards  behind  his  late 
hiding-place,  one  hundred  and  eighty  yards  from  the 
hut,  one  hundred  and  sixty  yards  from  the  spot  whence 
Karl    Steinmetz   had  sent   his   unerrino-  bullet  throujrh 


278  THE    sowEES 

tlic  bear's  brain.  Paul  saw  it  all.  He  measured  the 
distances.  He  looked  at  De  Chauxville,  standing  white- 
faced  at  his  post,  not  fifty  yards  from  the  carcass  of  the 
second  bear. 

Paul  seemed  to  see  no  one  but  De  Cliauxville.  He 
went  straight  toward  him,  and  the  wliole  party  followed 
in  breathless  suspense.  Steinmetz  was  nearest  to  him, 
watching  with  his  keen,  quiet  eyes. 

Paul  went  up  to  De  Cliauxville  and  took  the  rifle 
from  his  hands.  He  opened  the  breech  and  looked 
into  the  barrels.  They  were  clean  ;  the  rifle  had  not 
been  fired  off. 

He  gave  a  little  laugh  of  contempt,  and,  throwing  the 
rifle  at  De  Chauxville's  feet,  turned  abruptly  awa3^ 

It  was  Catrina  who  spoke. 

"If  3^ou  had  killed  him,"  she  said,  "I  would  have 
killed  you  !  " 

Steinmetz  picked  up  the  rifle,  closed  the  breech,  and 
handed  it  to  De  Chauxville  with  a  queer  smile. 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

A  CLOUD 

When  the  Osterno  party  reached  home  that  same 
evening  the  starosta  was  waiting  to  see  Steinmetz. 
His  news  was  sucii  that  Steinmetz  sent  for  Paul,  and 
the  throe  men  went  together  to  the  little  room  beyond 
the  smoking-room  in  the  old  part  of  the  castle. 

"  Well  ?  "  said  Paul,  with  the  unconscious  hauteur 
which  made  him  a  prhice  to  these  people. 

The  starosta  spread  out  his  hands. 

"Your  Excellency,"  he  answered,  "  I  am  afraid." 

"  Of  what  ?  " 

The  starosta  shrugged  his  narrow  shoulders  in  cring- 
ing deprecation. 

"  Excellency,  I  do  not  know.  There  is  something  in 
the  village — something  in  the  whole  country.  I  know 
not  what  it  is.  It  is  a  feeling — one  cannot  see  it,  one 
cannot  define  it  ;  but  it  is  there,  like  the  gleam  of  water 
at  the  bottom  of  a  deep  well.  The  moujiks  are  getting 
dangerous.  They  will  not  speak  to  me.  I  am  suspected. 
I  am  watched." 

His  shifty  eyes,  like  black  beads,  flitted  from  side  to 
side  as  he  spoke.  He  w^as  like  a  weasel  at  ba3\  It  was 
the  face  of  a  man  who  went  in  bodily  fear. 

"  I  will  go  with  you  down  to  the  village  now,"  said 
Paul.     "  Is  there  any  excuse — any  illness  ?  " 

"Ah,  Excellenc}'',"  replied  the  chief,  "  there  is  always 
that  excuse." 

Paul  looked  at  the  clock. 


280  THE     SOWERS 

"  I  will  go  now,"  he  said.  He  began  liis  simple 
preparations  at  once. 

"  There  is  dinner  to  be  thought  of,"  suggested  Stein- 
metz,  with  a  resigned  smile.     "  It  is  half-past  seven." 

"  Dinner  can  wait,"  replied  Paul  in  English.  *' You 
might  tell  the  ladies  that  I  have  gone  out,  and  will  dine 
alone  when  I  come  back." 

Steinmetz  shrugged  his  broad  shoulders. 

"  I  think  you  are  a  fool,"  he  said,  "  to  go  alone.  If 
they  discover  your  identit}^  they  will  tear  you  to  pieces." 

"  I  am  not  afraid  of  them,"  replied  Paul,  witli  his 
liead  in  tlie .medicine  cupboard,  "any  more  than  lam 
afraid  of  a  horse.  They  are  like  horses  ;  they  do  not 
know  their  own  strength." 

"  With  tliis  difference,"  added  Steinmetz,  "that  the 
moujik  will  one  day  make  the  discovery.  He  is  begin- 
ning to  make  it  now.  The  starosta  is  quite  right,  Paul. 
There  is  something  in  the  air.  It  is  about  time  tliat 
you  took  the  ladies  away  from  here  and  left  me  to  man- 
age it  alone." 

"  That  time  will  never  come  again,"  answered  Paul. 
"  I  am  not  going  to  leave  you  alone  again." 

He  was  pushing  his  arms  into  the  sleeves  of  the  old 
brown  coat  reaching  to  his  heels,  a  garment  which  com- 
manded as  much  love  and  respect  in  Osterno  as  ever 
would  an  angel's  wing. 

Steinmetz  opened  the  drawer  of  his  bureau  and  laid  a 
revolver  on  the  table. 

"At  all  events,"  he  said,  "j^ou  may  as  well  have  the 
wherewithal  to  make  a  fight  of  it,  if  the  worst  comes  to 
the  worst." 

"As  you  like,"  answered  Paul,  slipping  the  fire-arm 
into  his  pocket. 

The  starosta  moved  awa}^  a  pace  or  two.  He  was 
essentially  a  man  of  peace. 

Half   an   hour  later   it  became   known   in   the  vill:i52:e 


A    CLOUD  281 

that  the  Moscow  doctor  was  in  the  house  of  one  Ivan 
Krass,  where  he  was  prepared  to  see  all  patients  who 
were  now  suffering  from  infectious  complaints.  Tlie 
door  of  this  cottage  was  soon  besieged  by  the  sick  and 
the  idle,  while  the  starosta  stood  in  the  door-way  and 
kept  order. 

Within,  in  tlie  one  dwelling-room  of  tlie  cottage,  were 
assembled  as  picturesque  and  as  unsavory  a  group  as 
the  most  enthusiastic  modern  "  shimmer"  could  desire 
to  see. 

Paul,  standing  by  the  table  with  two  paraffin  lamps 
placed  behind  him,  saw  each  suppliant  in  turn,  and  all 
tlie  while  he  kept  up  a  running  conversation  with  the 
more  intelligent,  some  of  whom  lingered  on  to  talk  and 
watch . 

"  Ah,  John  the  son  of  John,"  he  would  say,  "  what 
is  the  matter  with  you  ?  It  is  not  often  I  see  you.  I 
thought  you  were  clean  and  thrifty." 

To  which  John  the  son  of  John  replied  that  the  winter 
had  been  hard  and  fuel  scarce,  that  his  Avife  was  dead 
and  liis  children  stricken  with  influenza. 

"  But  you  have  had  relief ;  our  good  friend  the 
starosta " 

"  Does  what  he  can,"  grumbled  John,  "  but  he  dare 
not  do  much.  The  barins  will  not  let  him.  The  nobles 
want  all  the  money  for  themselves.  The  Emperor  is 
living  in  his  palace,  where  there  are  fountains  of  wine. 
We  pay  for  that  with  our  taxes.  You  see  my  hand — I 
cannot  work  ;  but  I  must  pay  the  taxes,  or  else  we  shall 
be  turned  out  into  the  street." 

Paul,  while  attending  to  the  wounded  hand — an  old 
story  of  an  old  wound  neglected,  and  a  constitution  with 
all  the  natural  healing  power  drained  out  of  it  by  hunger 
and  want  and  vodka— Paul,  ever  watchful,  glanced 
round  and  saw  sullen,  lowering  faces,  eager  eyes,  hungry, 
cruel  lips. 


282  THE     SOWERS 

"But  the  winter  is  over  now.  You  are  mistaken 
about  the  nobles.  They  do  what  they  can.  The 
Emi^eror  pays  for  the  relief  that  you  have  had  all  these 
months.     It  is  foolish  to  talk  as  you  do." 

"  I  only  tell  the  trutl),"  replied  the  man,  wincing  as 
Paul  deliberately  cut  away  the  dead  flesh.  "  AVe  know 
now  why  it  is  that  we  are  all  so  poor." 

"  Why  ?"  asked  Paul,  pouring  some  lotion  over  a  wad 
of  lint  and  speaking  indifferently. 

"Because  the  nobles "  began  the   man,  and  some 

one  nudged  him  from  behind,  urging  him  to  silence. 

"You  need  not  be  afraid  of  me,"  said  Paul.  "  I  tell 
no  tales,  and  I  take  no  money." 

"Then  wh}^  do  you  come?"  asked  a  voice  in  the 
background.     "Some  one  pays  you  ;  who  is  it?" 

"Ah,  Tula,"  said  Paul,  without  looking  up.  "You 
are  there,  are  jou.  ?  The  great  Tula.  There  is  a  hard- 
working, sober  man,  my  little  fathers,  who  never  beats 
his  wife,  and  never  drinks,  and  never  borrows  money. 
A  useful  neighbor  !  What  is  the  matter  with  you, 
Tula?  You  have  been  too  sparing  with  the  vodka,  no 
doubt.     I  must  order  you  a  glass  every  liour." 

Tliere  was  a  little  laugh.  But  Paul,  who  knew  these 
people,  was  quite  alive  to  the  difference  of  feeling  to- 
ward himself.  They  still  accepted  liis  care,  his  help,  his 
medicine  ;  but  they  w^ere  beginning  to  doul)t  him. 

"  There  is  your  own  prince,"  he  went  on  fearlessly  to 
the  man  whose  hand  he  was  binding  up.  "  lie  Avill  help 
you  when  there  is  real  distress." 

An  ominous  silence  greeted  this  observation. 

Paul  raised  his  head  and  looked  round.  In  the  dim 
light  of  the  two  smoky  lamps  he  saw  a  ring  of  wild 
faces.  Men  with  shaggy  beards  and  hair  all  entangled 
and  unkempt,  with  fierce  eyes  and  lowering  glances  ; 
women  with  faces  that  unsexed  them.  There  were 
despair  and  desperation   and  utter  recklessness  in  the 


A   CLOUD  283 

air,  in  tlic  attitude,  in  the  liearts  of  tliese  people.  And 
Paul  hud  worked  among  them  for  years.  The  siglit 
would  have  been  heart-breaking  had  Paul  Howard 
Alexis  been  the  sort  of  man  to  admit  the  possibility  of  a 
broken  heart.  All  that  he  had  done  had  been  frustrated 
by  the  wall  of  heartless  bureaucracy  against  which  he 
had  pitched  his  single  strength.  There  was  no  visible 
progress.  Tliese  were  not  the  faces  of  men  and  women 
moving  up  the  social  scale  by  the  aid  of  education  and 
the  deeper  self-respect  that  follows  it.  Some  of  them 
were  young,  although  they  hardly  looked  it.  They 
were  young  in  years,  but  old  in  life  and  misery. 
Some  of  them  he  knew  to  be  educated.  He  had  paid 
for  the  education  himself.  He  liad  risked  his  own 
personal  freedom  to  procure  it  for  them,  and  misery  had 
killed  the  seed. 

He  looked  on  this  stony  ground,  and  his  stout  heart 
was  torn  with  pity.  It  is  easy  to  be  patient  in  social 
economy  when  that  vague  jumble  of  impossible  ideas  is 
calmly  discussed  across  the  dinner-table.  But  the  result 
seems  hopelessly  distant  when  the  mass  of  the  poor  and 
wretched  stand  before  one  in  the  flesh. 

Paul  knew  that  this  little  room  was  only  a  specimen 
of  the  whole  of  Russia.  Each  of  these  poor  peasants 
represented  a  million — equally  hopeless,  equally  power- 
less to  contend  Avitli  an  impossible  taxation. 

He  could  not  give  them  money,  because  the  tax-col- 
lector liad  them  all  under  his  thumb  and  would  exact 
the  last  kopeck.  The  question  was  far  above  his  single- 
handed  reach,  and  he  did  not  dare  to  meet  it  openly  and 
seek  the  assistance  of  the  few  fellow-nobles  wdio  faced 
the  position  without  fear. 

He  could  not  see  in  the  brutal  faces  before  him  one 
spark  of  intelligence,  one  little  gleam  of  independence 
and  self-respect  which  could  be  attributed  to  his 
endeavor  ;  -which  the  most  sanguine  construction  could 


284  THE    SOWERS 

take  as  resulting  from  his  time  and  money  given  to  a 
hopeless  cause. 

"  Well,"  he  said.  "  Have  you  nothing  to  tell  m>e  of 
3'^our  |)i'ince  ?  " 

"You  know  him,"  ansu'cred  the  man  who  had  spoken 
from  the  safe  background.     "  We  need  not  tell  you." 

*'  Yes,"  answered  Paul  ;  "  I  know  him." 

He  would  not  defend  himself. 

"There,"  he  went  on, addressing  the  man  whose  hand 
was  now  bandaged.  "  You  will  do.  Keep  clean  and 
sober,  and  it  will  heal.  Get  drunk  and  go  dirty,  and 
3'ou  will  die.     Do  you  understand,  Ivan  Ivanovitch  ?  " 

The  man  grunted  sullenly,  and  moved  away  to  give 
place  to  a  woman  with  a  babj^  in  her  arms. 

Paul  glanced  into  her  face.  He  had  known  her  a  few 
years  earlier  a  happy  child  playing  at  lier  mother's 
cottage  door. 

She  drew  back  the  shawl  that  covered  her  child,  with 
a  faint,  far-off  gleam  of  pride  in  her  eyes.  There  was 
something  horribly  pathetic  in  the  whole  picture.  The 
child-mother,  her  rough,  unlovely  face  lighted  for  a 
moment  with  that  gleam  from  Paradise  Avhich  men 
never  know ;  the  huge  man  bending  over  her,  and 
between  them  the  wizened,  disease-stricken  little  waif  of 
human  itj^ 

"When  he  was  born  he  was  a  very  fine  child,"  said 
the  mother. 

Paul  glanced  at  her.  She  was  quite  serious.  She  was 
looking  at  him  with  a  strange  pride  on  her  face.  Paul 
nodded  and  drew  aside  the  shawl.  The  bab}^  was  star- 
ing at  him  with  wise,  grave  eyes,  as  if  it  could  have  told 
him  a  thing  or  two  if  it  had  only  been  gifted  with  the 
necessary  speech.  Paul  knew^  that  look.  It  meant 
starvation. 

"What  is  it?"  asked  the  child-mother.  "It  is  only 
some  little  illness,  is  it  not  ?  " 


A    CLOUD  285 

"Yes  ;  it  is  only  a  little  illness." 

He  did  not  add  that  no  great  illness  is  required  to  kill 
a  small  child.  He  was  already  writing  something 
in  his  pocket-book.  He  tore  the  leaf  out  and  gave 
it  to  her. 

"This,"  he  said,  "is  for  you— yourself,  you  under- 
stand  ?  Take  that  each  day  to  the  starosta  and  he  will 
give  you  \vhat  I  have  written  down.  If  you  do  not  eat 
all  that  he  gives  you  and  drink  what  there  is  in  the 
bottle  as  he  directs  you,  the  baby  will  die— you  under- 
stand ?  You  must  give  nothing  away  ;  nothing  even  to 
3^our  husband." 

Tiie  next  patient  ^yag  the  man  whose  voice  had  been 
heard  from  the  safe  retreat  of  the  background.  His 
dominant  malady  was  obvious.  A  shaky  hand,  an  un- 
steady eye,  and  a  bloated  countenance  spoke  for  them- 
selves. But  he  had  other  diseases  more  or  less 
developed. 

"■  So  you  have  no  good  to  io]\  of  your  prince,"  said 
Paul,  looking  into  the  man's  face. 

"  Our  prince.  Excellency !  He  is  not  our  prhice. 
His  forefathers  seized  this  land  ;  that  is  all." 

"  Ah  !     Who  has  been  telling  you  that  ?  " 

"No  one,"  grumbled  the  man.  "We  know  it ;  that 
is  all." 

"But  you  were  his  father's  serfs,  before  the  freedom. 
Let  me  see  your  tongue.  Yes;  you  have  been  drink- 
i,io_all  the  winter.  Ah  !  is  not  that  so,  little  father? 
Your  parents  were  serfs  before  the  freedom." 

"  Freedom  I  "  growled  the  man.  "  A  pretty  freedom  ! 
We  were  better  off  before." 

"  Yes  ;  but  the  world  interfered  with  serfdom,  because 
it  got  its  necessary  touch  of  sentiment.  There  is  no 
sentiment  in  starvation." 

The  man  did  not  understand.  He  grunted  acqui- 
escence nevertheless.     The   true  son    of   the    people    is 


286  THE     SOWERS 

always  ready  to  grunt  acquiescence  to  all  that  sounds 
like  abuse. 

"  And  what  is  this  prince  like  ?  Have  you  seen 
him  ?  "  went  on  PauL 

"  No  ;  I  have  not  seen  him.  If  I  saw  him  I  would 
kick  his  head  to  pieces." 

''Ah,  just  open  your  mouth  a  little  wider.  Yes  ;  you 
have  a  nasty  throat  there.  You  have  had  diphtheria. 
So  you  would  kick  his  head  to  pieces.     Why  ?  " 

"He  is  a  tchinovnik — a  government  sp3\  He  lives 
on  the  taxes.     But  it  will  not  be  for  long.     There  is  a 


"  Ah  !  Wliat  sort  of  a  time  ?  Now,  you  must  take 
this  to  the  starosta.  He  will  give  you  a  bottle.  It  is 
not  to  drink.  It  is  to  wash  jour  tliroat  with.  Remem- 
ber tliat,  and  do  not  give  it  to  your  Avife  by  way  of  a 
tonic  as  you  did  last  time.  So  there  are  changes  com- 
ing, are  there  ?" 

"There  is  a  change  coming  for  the  prince — for  all  the 
princes,"  n^plied  the  man  in  the  usual  taproom  jargon. 
"  For  the  Emperor  too.  The  poor  man  has  had  enough 
of  it.  God  made  the  world  for  the  poor  man  as  well  as 
for  the  rich.  Riches  should  be  equall}^  divided.  They 
are  going  to  be.  Tlie  country  is  going  to  be  governed 
by  a  Mir.  There  will  be  no  taxes.  The  Mir  makes 
no  taxes.  It  is  the  tchinovniks  who  make  the  taxes 
and  live  on  them." 

"Ah,  you  are  very  eloquent,  little  father.  If  you 
talk  like  this  in  the  kabak  no  wonder  you  have  a  bad 
throat.  There,  I  can  do  no  more  for  j^ou.  You  must 
wash  more  and  drink  less.  You  might  try  a  little 
work  jDerhaps  ;  it  stimulates  the  appetite.  And  with  a 
throat  like  that  I  should  not  talk  so  much  if  I  were  you. 
Next  ! " 

The  next  comer  was  afflicted  with  a  wound  that 
would  not  heal — a  common  trouble  in  cold    countries. 


A    CLOUD 


287 


While  attending  to  this  sickening  sore  Paul  continued 
bis  conversation  with  the  last  patient. 

"You  must  tell  me,"  he  said,  "when  these  changes 
are  about  to  come.  I  should  like  to  be  there  to  see.  It 
will  be  interesting." 

The  man  laughed  m3^steriousl3^ 

"  So  the  government  is  to  be  by  a  Mir,  is  it  ? "  Avent 
on  Paul. 

"'  Yes  ;  the  poor  man  is  to  have  a  say  in  it." 

"  That  will  be  interesting.  But  at  the  Mir  every  one 
talks  at  once  and  no  one  listens  ;  is  it  not  so?  " 

The  man  made  no  reply. 

"Is  the  change  coming  soon  ?"  asked  Paul  coolly. 

But  there  was  no  reply.  Some  one  had  seized  the 
loquacious  orator  of  the  1  r:bak,  and  he  was  at  that 
moment  being  quietly  husti^ci  out  of  the  room. 

After  this  there  was  a  sullen  silence,  which  Paul 
could  not  charm  away,  charm  he  never  so  wisely. 

When  his  patients  had  at  last  ebbed  away  he  lighted 
a  cigarette  and  walked  thoughtfully  back  to  the  castle. 
Tiiere  w^as  danger  in  the  air,  and  this  was  one  of  those 
men  upon  whom  danger  acts  as  a  pleasant  stimulant. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 

THE    NET    IS    DRAWN 

During  the  days  following  Paul's  visit  to  the  village 
the  ladies  did  not  see  inucli  male  society.  Paul  and 
Steinraetz  usuall}^  left  the  cnst^o  immediately  after  break- 
fast and  did  not  return  till  nightfall. 

*'  Is  there  any  thing  wrong  ?  "  Maggie  asked  Steinmetz 
on  the  evening  of  the  second  day. 

Steinmetz  had  just  come  into  the  vast  drawing-room 
dressed  for  dinner — stout,  placid,  and  veiy  clean-looking. 
They  were  alone  in  the  room. 

"  Nothing,  my  dear  young  lady — yet,"  he  answered, 
coming  forward  and  rubbing  his  broad  palms  slowly 
together. 

Maggie  was  reading  an  English  newspaper.  She 
turned  its  pages  without  pausing  to  notice  the  black 
and  sticky  obliterations  effected  by  the  postal  authori- 
ties before  deliver}^  It  was  no  new  thing  to  her  now 
to  come  upon  the  press  censor's  handiwork  in  the  columns 
of  such  periodicals  and  newspapers  as  Paul  received 
from  England. 

"  Because,"  she  said,  "  if  there  is  you  need  not  be  afraid 
of  telling  me." 

"  To  have  that  fear  would  be  to  offer  you  an  insult," 
replied  Steinmetz.  "  Paul  and  I  are  investigating 
matters,  that  is  all.  The  plain  truth,  mj  dear  j^oung 
lady,  is  that  we  do  not  know  ourselves  what  is  in  the 
wind.  We  only  know  there  is  something.  You  are  a 
horsewoman — you  know  the  feeling  of  a  restive  horse. 
One  knows  that  he  is  onl3^  waiting  for  an  excuse  to  shy 


»•   •   •    • 


STARING  WITH  HAGGARD  EYES  INTO  THE   FIRE 


THE    NET    IS    DRAAVN  289 

or  to  kick  or  to  rear.  One  feels  it  tlirilling  in  liini. 
Paul  and  I  have  that  feeling  in  regard  to  the  peasants. 
We  are  going  the  round  of  the  outlying  villages,  steadily 
and  carefully.  We  are  seeking  for  the  fly  on  the  horse's 
body — you  understand?" 

"  Yes,  I  understand." 

She  gave  a  little  nod.  She  had  not  lost  color,  but 
there  was  an  anxious  look  in  her  eyes. 

"  Some  people  would  have  sent  to  Tver  for  the  soldiers," 
Steinmetz  went  on.  "  But  Paul  is  not  that  sort  of  man. 
He  will  not  do  it  j^et.  You  remember  our  conversation 
at  the  Charity  Ball  in  London  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

^'  I  did  not  want  you  to  come  then.  I  am  sorry  you 
have  come  now." 

Maggie  laid  aside  the  newspaper  with  a  little  laugh. 

"  But,  Ilerr  Steinmetz,"  she  said,  "  I  am  not  afraid. 
Please  remember  that.  I  have  absolute  faith  in  you — 
and  in  Paul." 

Steinmetz  accepted  this  statement  with  his  grave 
smile. 

"  There  is  only  one  thing  I  would  recommend,"  he 
said,  "  and  that  is  a  perfect  discretion.  Speak  of  this 
to  no  one,  especially  to  no  servants.  You  remember 
your  own  mutiny  in  India.  Gott  !  what  wonderful 
people  you  English  are — men  and  women  alike  !  You 
remember  how  the  ladies  kept  up  and  brazened  it  out 
before  the  servants.  You  must  do  the  same.  I  think  I 
hear  the  rustle  of  the  princess's  dress.  Yes  !  And  there 
is  no  news  in  the  papers,  you  say?" 

"  None,"  I'cplied  Maggie. 

It  may  not  have  been  entirel}^  by  chance  that  Claude 
de  Chauxville  drove  over  to  Osterno  to  pay  his  resi)ects 
the  next  day,  and  expressed  himself  desolated  at  hearing 
that  the  prince  had  gone  out  with  Ilerr  Steinmetz  in  a 
sleigh  to  a  distant  corner  of  the  estate. 
19 


290  THE     SOWERS 

'"'  M}^  horses  must  rest,"  said  the  Frenchman,  calmly 
taking  off  his  fur  gloves.  "Perhaps  the  princess  will 
see  me." 

A  few  minutes  later  he  was  shown  into  the  morn- 
ing-room. 

"Did  I  sec  Mile.  Dclafield  on  snow-shoes  in  the  forest 
,as  I  came  along?"  De  Chauxville  asked  the  servant  in 
perfect  Russian  before  the  man  left  the  room. 

"  Doubtless,  Excellency.  She  went  out  on  her  snow- 
shoes  half  an  hour  ago." 

"  That  is  all  right,"  said  the  Frenchman  to  himself 
when  the  door  was  closed. 

He  went  to  the  fire  and  warmed  his  slim  wliite 
finixers.  Tliere  was  an  evil  smile  lurkinG:  beneath  his 
mustache. 

When  Etta  opened  the  door  a  minute  later  he  bowed 
low,  Avithout  speaking.  The^-e  was  a  suggestion  of 
triumph   in   his   attitude. 

"Well?"  said  the  princess,  witliout  acknowledging 
his  salutation. 

De  Cliauxville  raised  his  eyebrows  with  the  resigned 
surprise  of  a  man  to  whom  no  feminine  humor  is  new. 
He  brought  forward  a  cliair. 

"  Will  you  sit?  "  he  said,  with  exaggerated  courtes3^ 
"I  have  much  to  say  to  you.  Besides,  we  have  all  the 
time.  Your  husband  and  liis  German  friend  are  miles 
away.  I  passed  Miss  Delafield  in  the  forest,  Slie  is  not 
quite  at  home  on  her  snow-shoes  yet.  She  cannot  be 
back  for  at  least  half  an  liour." 

Etta  bit  lier  lip  as  slie  looked  at  the  chair.  She  sat 
slowly  down  and  drew  in  the  folds  of  her  rich  dress. 

"  I  have  the  good  fortune  to  find  you  alone." 

"  So  you  have  informed  me,"  she  replied  coldly. 

De  Chauxville  leaned  against  the  mantel-piece  and 
looked  down  at  her  thoughtfully. 

"At  the  bear-hunt  the  other  dav,"  he   said,  "I  had 


THE    NET    IS    DRAWN  291 

the  misfortune  to — well,  to  fall  out  with  the  prince. 
We  were  not  quite  at  one  an  a  question  of  etiquette. 
lie  thought  that  I  ought  to  have  fired.  I  did  not  fire  ; 
I  was  not  ready.  It  appears  that  the  prince  considered 
himself  to  be  in  danger.     He  was  nervous — flurried." 

"You  are  not  always  artistic  in  your  untruths,"  inter- 
rupted Etta.  "  I  know  nothing  of  the  incident  to  which 
you  refer,  but  in  lying  you  should  always  endeavor  to 
be  consistent.  I  am  sure  Paul  was  not  nervous — or 
flurried." 

De  Chauxville  smiled  imperturbably.  His  end  was 
gained.  Etta  obviously  knew  nothing  of  his  attempt  to 
murder  Paul  at  the  bear-liunt. 

"  It  was  nothing,"  he  went  on  ;  "  we  did  not  come  to 
words.  But  we  have  never  been  much  in  sympatln^;  the 
coldness  is  intensified,  that  is  all.  So  I  took  the  oppor- 
tunity of  calling  when  I  knew  he  was  away." 

"  How  did  you  know  he  was  away  ?" 

*'  Ah,  madame,  I  know  more  than  I  am  credited  with." 

Etta  gave  a  little  laugh  and  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"  You  do  not  care  for  Osterno  ? "  suggested  De 
Ciiauxville. 

"I  hate  it!" 

"Precisely.  And  I  am  here  to  help  you  to  get  away 
from  Russia  once  for  all.  Ah  !  you  may  shake  your 
head.  Some  da}^,  perhaps,  I  shall  succeed  in  convincing 
you  that  I  have  only  your  interests  at  heart.  I  am  here, 
princess,  to  make  a  little  arrangement  with  you — a  final 
arrangement,  I  h()])e." 

He  paused,  looking  at  her  with  a  sudden  gleam  in  his 
eyes. 

"Not  the  last  of  all,"  he  added  in  a  different  tone. 
"  That  will  make  you  my  wife." 

Etta  allowed  this  statement  to  pass  unchallenged. 
Her  courage  and  energ\^  Avere  not  exhausted.  She  was 
learn  in  q:  to  nurse  her  forces. 


292  THE     SOWERS 

"  Your  liiisband,"  went  on  De  Chauxville,  after  lie  liad 
sufficiently  enjoyed  the  savor  of  his  own  words,  "  is  a 
brave  man.  To  frigliten  him  it  is  necessaiy  to  resort  to 
strong  measures.  Tlie  last  and  the  strongest  measure 
in  tlie  diplomat's  scale  is  the  People.  The  People, 
madame,  will  take  no  denial.  It  is  a  game  I  have 
played  before — a  dangerous  game,  but  I  am  not  afraid." 

"You  need  not  trouble  to  be  theatrical  Avith  me,"  put 
in  Etta  scornfully.  She  was  sitting  Avith  a  patch  of 
color  in  either  cheek.  At  times  this  man  had  the  power 
of  moving  her,  and  she  was  afraid  of  allowing  him  to 
exercise  it.  Slie  knew  her  own  weakness — her  inordi- 
nate vanity  ;  for  vanitj^  is  the  weakness  of  strong 
women.  She  was  ever  open  to  flattery,  and  Claude  de 
Chauxville  flattered  her  in  every  word  he  spoke;  for  by 
act  and  speech  he  made  it  manifest  that  she  was  tlie 
motive  power  of  his  existence, 

"  A  man  who  plaj^s  for  a  higli  stake,"  went  on  the 
Frenchman,  in  a  quieter  voice,  "  must  be  content  to  throw 
his  all  on  the  table  time  after  time.  A  week  to-niglu — 
Thursday,  the  5th  of  April — I  will  throw  down  m}^  all 
on  the  turn  of  a  card.  For  the  People  ai'e  like  that.  It 
is  rouge  or  noir — one  never  knows.  We  only  know  that 
there  is  no  third  color,  no  compromise." 

Etta  was  listening  now  with  ill-disguised  interest.  At 
last  lie  had  given  her  something  definite — a  date. 

"  On  Thursda3^,"he  went  on,  "  the  peasants  will  make 
a  demonstration.  You  know  as  well  as  I  do — as  well  as 
Prince  Pavlo  does,  despite  his  imperturbable  face — that 
the  whole  country  is  a  volcano  which  ma}'  break  forth 
at  any  moment.  But  the  control  is  strong,  and  there- 
fore there  is  never  a  large  eruption — a  grumble  here,  a 
gleam  of  fire  there,  a  sullen  heat  everywhere  !  But  it 
is  held  in  check  by  the  impossibility  of  communication. 
It  seems  strange,  but  Russia  stands  because  she  lias  no 
penny  postage.     The  great  crash  will  come,  not  by  force 


THE    NET    IS    DRAWN  293 

of  arms,  but  by  ways  of  peace.  The  signal  will  be  a 
postal  system,  tlie  standard  of  the  revolution  will  be  a 
postage-stamp.  All  over  this  country  there  are  millions 
waiting  and  burning  to  rise  up  and  crush  despotism,  but 
they  are  held  in  check  by  the  simple  fact  that  they  are 
far  apart  and  they  cannot  write  to  each  other.  When, 
at  last,  they  are  brought  together,  tliere  will  be  no  figlit 
at  all,  because  they  will  overwhelm  their  enemies.  That 
time,  madame,  has  not  come  yet.  We  are  only  at  the 
stage  of  tentative  undergound  rumblings.  But  a  little 
eruption  is  enough  to  wipe  out  one  man  if  he  be  stand- 
ing on  the  spot." 

"Go  on,"  said  Etta  quietly — too  quietly,  De  Chaux- 
ville  might  have  thought,  had  he  been  calmer. 

"  I  want  you,"  he  went  on,  "  to  assist  me.  We  shall 
be  ready  on  Thursday.  I  shall  not  appear  in  the  matter 
at  all ;  I  have  strong  colleagues  at  my  back.  Starvation 
and  misery,  properly  handled,  are  strong  incentives." 

"And  how  do  you  propose  to  handle  them?"  asked 
Etta  in  the  same  quiet  voice. 

"The  peasants  Avill  make  a  demonstration.  The  rest 
we  must  leave  to — well,  to  the  course  of^  fortune.  I 
have  no  doubt  that  our  astute  friend  Karl  Steinmetz 
will  manage  to  hold  them  in  check.  But  whatever  the 
end  of  the  demonstration,  the  outcome  will  be  the 
impossibility  of  a  longer  residence  in  this  country  for 
the  Prince  Pavlo  Alexis.  A  regiment  of  soldiers  could 
hardly  make  it  possible." 

"I  do  not  understand,"  said  Etta,  "what  you  de- 
scribe as  a  demonstration — is  it  a  rising?" 

De  Chauxville  nodded,  with  a  grin. 

"  In  force,  to  take  what  they  want  by  force  ?  "  asked 
the  princess. 

De  Chauxville  spread  out  his  hands  in  his  graceful 
Gallic  wa3^ 

"That  de])ends." 


294  THE     SOWERS 

"And  Avliat  do  3-011  wisli  mc  to  do?"  asked  Etta,  witli 
tlic  same  concciitnitcd  quiet. 

''  111  tlie  first  place,  to  believe  that  no  harm  will  come 
to  you,  either  directly  or  indirectly.  They  would  not 
dare  to  touch  the  prince  ;  they  will  content  themselves 
with  breaking  a  few  windows." 

"  What  do  you  want  me  to  do?"  repeated  Etta. 

De  Chauxville  paused. 

"  Merely,"  he  answered  liglitly,  "  to  leave  open  a 
door — a  side  door.  I  understand  that  there  is  a  door 
in  the  old  portion  of  the  castle  leading  up  by  a  flight  of 
stairs  to  the  smoking-room,  and  thence  to  the  new  part 
of  the  building." 

Etta  did  not  answer.  De  Chauxville  glanced  at 
his  watch  and  walked  to  the  Auindow,  where  he  stood 
looking  out.  He  was  too  refined  a  person  to  whistle,  but 
his  attitude  was  suggestive  of  that  mode  of  killing  time. 

"This  door  I  wish  yon  to  unbar  yourself  before 
dinner  on  Thursday  evening,"  he  said,  turning  round 
and  slowly  coming  toward  hew 

"  And  I  refuse  to  do  it,"  said  Etta. 

"  Ah  ! " 

Etta  sprung  to  her  feet  and  faced  him — a  beautiful 
woman,  a  very  queen  of  anger.  Her  blazing  e^^'es  were 
on  a  level  with  his. 

"Yes,"  she  cried,  with  clenched  fists,  standing  her  full 
lieight  till  she  seemed  to  look  down  into  his  mean,  fox- 
like face.     "  Yes  ;  I  refuse  to  betray  my  husband " 

"  Stop  !     He  is  not  your  husband  !  " 

Slowdy  the  anger  faded  out  of  her  eyes  ;  her  clenched 
fists  relaxed.  Her  fingers  were  scraping  nervously  at 
the  silk  of  her  dress,  like  the  fingers  of  a  child  seeking 
support.  She  seemed  to  lose  several  inches  of  her 
majestic  stature. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  she  whispered.  "What  do 
you  mean  ?  " 


THE    NET    IS    DRAWN  295 

"  Sydney  Bamborouoh  is  your  luisband,"  said  the 
Frencliman,  witliout  taking  his  dull  eyes  from  her  face. 

"lie  is  dead  ! "  she  hissed. 

"  Prove  it  !  " 

He  walked  past  her  and  leaned  against  the  mantel- 
piece in  the  pose  of  easy  familiarity  which  he  had 
maintained  during  the  first  portion  of  their  interview. 

"  Prove  it,  madame  !"  he  said  again. 

"  He  died  at  Tver,"  she  said  ;  but  there  was  no  con- 
viction in  her  voice.  With  her  title  and  position  to 
hold  to,  she  could  face  the  world.  Without  these,  what 
was  she  ? 

"A  local  newspaper  reports  that  the  body  of  a  man 
was  discovered  on  the  plains  of  Tver  and  duly  buried 
in  the  pauper  cemeterj^,"  said  De  Chauxville  indif- 
ferently. "Your  husband— Sydney  Bamborough,  I 
mean — was,  for  reasons  which  need  not  be  gone  into 
here,  in  the  neighborhood  of  Tver  at  the  time.  A 
police  officer,  who  has  since  been  transferred  to  Odessa, 
was  of  the  opinion  that  the  dead  man  was  a  foreigner. 
There  are  about  twelve  thousand  foreigners  in  Tver — 
operatives  in  the  manufactories.  Your  husband — 
Sydney  Bamborough,  bien  entendu — left  Tver  to  pro- 
ceed eastward  and  cross  Siberia  to  China  in  order  to 
avoid  the  emissaries  of  the  Charity  League,  who  were 
looking  out  for  him  at  the  western  frontier.  He  will 
be  due  at  one  of  the  treaty  ports  in  China  in  about  a 
month.  Upon  the  supposition  that  the  body  discovered 
on  the  plains  of  Tver  was  that  of  your  husband,  you 
took  the  opportunity  of  becoming  a  princess.  It  was 
snterprising.  I  admire  your  spirit.  But  it  was  dan- 
gerous. I,  madame,  can  suppress  Sydney  Bamborough 
when  he  turns  up.  I  have  two  arrows  in  my  quiver  for 
liim  ;  one  is  the  Charity  League,  the  other  the  Russian 
Government,  who  want  him.  Your  husband — I  beg 
your    ])ardon,   the   prince — would    perhaps   take    a    dif- 


296  THE     SOWERS 

ferent  view  of  tlie  case.  It  is  a  pretty  stoiy.  I  will 
tell  it  to  him  unless  I  have  your  implicit  obedience." 

Etta  stood  drjMipped  before  him.  She  tried  to  speak, 
but  no  words  came  from  her  lips. 

De  Chauxville  looked  at  her  with  a  quiet  smile  of  tri- 
umph, and  she  knew  that  he  loved  her.  There  is  no 
defining  love,  nor  telling  when  it  merges  into  hatred. 

"  Thursday  evening,  before  dinner,"  said  De  Chaux- 
ville. 

And  he  left  her  standing  on  the  hearth-rug,  her  lips 
moving  and  framing  no  words. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 

AN  APPEAL 

"  Have  j^ou  spoken  to  the  princess  ?  "  asked  Steinmetz, 
without  taking  the  cigar  from  his  lips. 

They  were  driving  home  tlirough  tlie  forest  that 
surrounded  Osterno  as  the  sea  surrounds  an  island. 
Tliey  were  alone  in  the  sleigh.  That  which  they  had 
been  doing  had  required  no  servant.  Paul  was  driving, 
and  consequently  the  three  horses  were  going  as  hard  as 
they  could.  The  snow  flew  past  their  faces  like  the 
foam  over  the  gunwale  of  a  boat  that  is  thrashing  into 
a  ten-knot  breeze.  Yet  it  Avas  not  all  snow.  There 
were  flecks  of  foam  from  the  horses'  mouths  mingled 
with  it. 

"Yes,"  answered  PauL  His  face  was  set  and  hard, 
liis  eyes  stern.  This  trouble  with  the  peasants  was 
aifecting  him  more  keenly  than  he  suspected.  It  was 
ciianging  the  man's  face — drawing  lines  about  his  lips, 
streaking  his  forehead  with  the  marks  of  care.  His 
position  can  hardly  be  realized  by  an  Englishman  unless 
it  be  compared  to  that  of  the  captain  of  a  great  sinking 
ship  full  of  human  souls  who  have  been  placed  under 
his  care. 

"  And  what  did  she  say  ?  "  asked  Steinmetz. 

"  That  she  would  not  leave  unless  we  all  went  with 
her." 

Steinmetz  drew  the  furs  closer  up  round  him. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  glancing  at  his  companion's  face,  and 
seeing  little  but  the  eyes,  by  reason  of  the  sable  collar  of 


298  THE     SOWERS 

liis  coat,  whicli  met  the  fur  of  bis  cap  ;  ^'yes,  and  why 
not  ?  " 

"I  cannot  leave  them,"  answered  Pauh  "I  cannot 
go  away  now  tliat  there  is  trouble  among  them.  What 
it  is,  goodness  only  knows  !  They  would  never  have 
got  like  this  by  themselves.  Somebody  has  been  at 
them,  and  I  don't  think  it  is  the  Nihilists.  It  is  worse 
than  that.  Some  devil  has  been  stirring  them  up,  and 
they  know  no  better.  He  is  still  at  it.  They  are  get- 
ting worse  day  by  da}^  and  I  cannot  catch  him.  If  I 
do,  by  God  !  Steinmetz,  I'll  twist  his  neck." 

Steinmetz  smiled  grimly. 

"  Yes,"  he  answered,  "  j^ou  are  capable  of  it.  For 
me,  I  am  getting  tired  of  the  moujik.  He  is  an  invet- 
erate, incurable  fool.  If  he  is  going  to  be  a  dangerous 
fool  as  well,  I  should  almost  be  inclined  to  let  him  go  to 
the  devil  in  his  own  way." 

"  I  dare  say  ;  but  you  are  not  in  my  position." 

"  No  ;  that  is  true,  Pavlo.  They  were  not  my  father's 
serfs.  Generations  of  my  ancestors  have  not  saved 
generations  of  their  ancestors  from  starvation.  My 
fathers  before  me  have  not  toiled  and  slaved  and  legis- 
lated for  them.  I  have  not  learnt  medicine  that  I  might 
doctor  them.  I  have  not  risked  my  health  and  life  in 
their  sties,  where  pigs  would  refuse  to  live.  I  have  not 
given  m}^  whole  heart  and  soul  to  their  welfare,  to  receive 
no  thanks,  but  onl}^  hatred.  No,  it  is  different  for  me. 
I  owe  them  nothing,  mein  lieber  ;  that  is  the  difference." 

"  If  I  agree  to  make  a  bolt  for  Petersburg  to-morrow 
will  you  come  ?  "  retorted  Paul. 

''  No,"  answered  the  stout  man. 

"  I  thought  not.  Your  cynicism  is  only  a  matter  of 
words,  Steinmetz,  and  not  of  deeds.  There  is  no  ques- 
tion of  either  of  us  leaving  Osterno.  We  must  stay  and 
tight  it  right  out  here." 

"That  is  so,"  answered  Steinmetz,  with  the  Teutonic 


AN    APPEAL  299 

stolidity  of  manner  wliicli  sometimes  came  over  liim. 
"  But  the  ladies— what  of  them  ?  " 

Paul  did  not  answer.  They  were  passing  over  the 
rise  of  a  heavy  drift.  It  was  necessary  to  keep  the 
horses  up  to  their  work,  to  prevent  the  runners  of  the 
sleigh  sinking  into  the  snow.  With  voice  and  whip 
Paul  encouraged  them,  lie  was  kind  to  animals,  but 
never  spared  them — a  strong  man,  who  gave  freely  of 
his  strength  and  expected  an  equal  generosity. 

*'  This  is  no  ])lace  for  Miss  Delafield,"  added  Stein- 
metz,  looking  straiglit  in  front  of  him. 

"  I  know  that  I  "  answered  Paul  sharply.  "  I  wish  to 
God  she  was  not  here  !  "  he  added  in  a  lower  tone,  and 
the  words  w^ere  lost  beneath  the  frozen  mustache. 

Steinmetz  made  no  answer.  They  drove  on  through 
the  gathering  gloom.  The  sky  was  of  a  yellow  gray, 
and  the  earth  reflected  the  dismal  hue  of  it.  Presentl}' 
it  began  to  snow,  driving  in  a  line  haze  from  the  north. 
The  two  men  lapsed  into  silence.  Steinmetz,  buried  in 
his  furs  like  a  great,  cumbrous  bear,  appeared  to  be  half 
asleep.  They  had  had  a  long  and  wearisome  day.  The 
horses  had  covered  their  forty  miles  and  more  from 
village  to  village,  where  the  two  men  had  only  gathered 
discouragement  and  foreboding.  Some  of  the  starostas 
were  sullen  ;  others  openly  scared.  None  of  them  were 
glad  to  see  Steinmetz.  Paul  had  never  dared  to  betray 
his  identity.  With  the  gendarmes — the  tchino-vniks — 
they  had  not  deemed  it  wise  to  hold  communication. 

"  Stop  !  "  cried  Steinmetz  suddenly,  and  Paul  pulled 
the  horses  on  to  their  haunches. 

"I  thought  you  were  asleep,"  he  said. 

There  was  no  one  in  sight.  T^hey  were  driving  along 
the  new  road  now,  the  high-way  Paul  had  constructed 
from  Osterno  to  Tver.  The  road  itself  was,  of  course, 
indistinguishable,  but  the  telegraph  posts  marked  its 
course. 


300  THE     SOWERS 

Steinmetz  tumbled  heavily  out  of  liis  furs  and  went 
toward  the  nearest  telegraph  post. 

"•'  Where  is  the  wire  ?  "  he  shouted. 

Paul  followed  him  in  the  sleigh.  Together  they 
peered  up  into  the  darkness  and  the  falling  snow.  The 
posts  were  there,  but  the  wire  was  gone.  A  whole  length 
of  it  had  been  removed.  They  were  cut  off  from  civiliza- 
tion by  one  hundred  and  forty  miles  of  untrodden  snow. 

Steinmetz  clambered  back  into  the  sleigh  and  drew 
np  the  fur  apron.  He  gave  a  strange  little  laugh  that 
had  a  ring  of  boyish  excitement  in  it.  This  man  had 
not  always  been  stout  and  placid.  He  too  had  had  his 
day,  and  those  who  knew  him  said  that  it  had  been  a 
stirring  one. 

"  That  settles  one  question,"  he  said. 

"  Which  question  ?  "  asked  Paul. 

He  was  driving  as  hard  as  the  horses  could  ]aj  hoof 
to  ground,  taken  with  a  sudden  misgiving  and  a  great 
desire  to  reach  Osterno  before  dark. 

"The  question  of  the  ladies,"  replied  Steinmetz.  "It 
is  too  late  for  them  to  go  now." 

The  village,  nestling  beneath  the  grim  protection  of 
Osterno,  was  deserted  and  forlorn.  All  the  doors  were 
closed,  the  meagre  curtains  drawn.  It  Avas  yevy  cold. 
There  was  a  sense  of  relief  in  this  great  frost  ;  for  when 
Nature  puts  forth  her  strength  men  are  usually  cowed 
thereby. 

At  the  castle  all  seemed  to  be  in  order.  The  groom, 
in  his  great  sheepskin  coat,  was  waiting  in  the  door- 
way. The  servants  threw  open  the  vast  doors,  and 
stood  respectfully  in  the  Avarm,  brilliantly  lighted  hall 
while  their  master  passed  in. 

"  Where  is  the  princess  ?  "  Steinmetz  asked  liis  valet, 
while  lie  was  removing  the  evidences  of  a  long  day  in  the 
open  air. 

"  In  her  drawing-room,  Excellenc}^" 


AN    APPEAL  301 

"  Then  go  and  ask  lier  if  she  will  give  me  a  cup  of 
tea  in  a  few  minutes." 

And  the  man,  a  timorous  German,  went. 

A  few  minutes  later  Steinmetz,  presenting  liimself  at 
tlie  door  of  the  little  drawing-room  attached  to  Etta's 
>uite  of  rooms,  found  the  princess  in  a  matchless  tea- 
gown  waiting  beside  a  table  laden  with  silver  tea  appli- 
ances. A  dainty  samovar,  a  tiny  tea-pot,  a  spirit-lamp 
and  the  rest,  all  in  the  wonderful  silver-work  of  the 
Slavonski  Bazaar  in  Moscow. 

"  You  see,"  she  said  with  a  smile,  for  she  always 
smiled  on  men,  "  I  have  obeyed  your  orders." 

Steinmetz  bowed  gravely.  Ho  was  one  of  the  few 
men  who  could  see  that  smile  and  be  strong.  lie  closed 
the  door  carefully  behind  him.  No  mention  was  made 
of  the  fact  that  his  message  had  implied,  and  she  had 
understood,  that  he  wished  to  see  her  alone.  Etta  was 
rather  pale.  There  was  an  anxious  look  in  her  eyes — 
behind  the  smile,  as  it  were.  She  was  afraid  of  this 
man.  She  looked  at  the  flame  of  the  samovar,  busying 
herself  among  the  tea-things  with  pretty  curving 
iino-ers  and  rustlinof  sleeves.  But  the  tea  was  never 
made. 

"  I  begin  to  think,"  said  Steinmetz,  coming  to  the 
point  in  his  bluff  Avay,  "  that  you  are  a  sort  of  beautiful 
Jonah,  a  graceful  storniy  petrel,  a  fair  Wandering  Jew- 
ess.    There  is  always  trouble  where  you  go." 

She  glanced  at  his  broad  face,  and  read  nothing  there. 

"  Go  on,"  she  said.  *'  What  have  I  been  doing  now  ? 
How  you  do  hate  me,  Ilerr  Steinmetz  !  " 

"  Perhaps  it  is  safer  than  loving  you,"  he  answered, 
with  his  grim  humor. 

"I  suppose,"  she  said,  with  a  quaint  little  air  of  resig- 
nation which  was  very  disarming,  "  that  you  have  come 
liere  to  scold  me — you  do  not  want  any  tea?" 

"  No  ;  I  do  not  want  any  tea." 


302  THE     SOWERS 

She  turned  the  wick  of  the  spirit-Lamp,  and  the  peace- 
ful music  of  the  samovar  was  still.  In  her  clever 
e^^es  there  was  a  little  air  of  sidelong  indecision.  She 
could  not  make  up  her  mind  how  to  take  him. 
Her  chiefest  method  was  so  old  as  to  be  biblical.  Yet 
she  could  not  take  him  with  her  e^^elids.  She  had 
tried. 

"  You  are  horribl}^  grave,"  she  said. 

"The  situation,"  he  replied,  "  is  horribly  grave." 

Etta  looked  up  at  him  as  he  stood  before  her,  and  the 
lamp-light,  falling  on  the  perfect  oval  of  her  face,  showed 
it  to  be  white  and  drawn. 

"  Princess,"  said  the  man,  "  there  are  in  the  lives  of 
some  of  us  times  when  we  cease  to  be  men  and  women, 
and  become  mere  human  beings.  There  are  times,  I 
mean,  when  the  thousand  influences  of  sex  die  at  one 
blow  of  fate.  This  is  such  a  time.  We  must  forget 
that  you  are  a  beautiful  woman  ;'  I  verily  believe  that 
there  is  none  more  beautiful  in  the  world.  I  once  knew 
one  whom  I  admired  more,  but  that  was  not  because  she 
was  more  beautiful.  That,  however,  is  my  own  story^ 
and  this" — he  paused  and  looked  round  the  little  room, 
furnished,  decorated  for  her  comfort — "  this  is  3^our 
story.  We  must  forget  that  I  am  a  man,  and  therefore 
subject  to  the  influence  of  your  beauty." 

She  sat  looking  up  into  his  strong,  grave  face,  and 
during  all  that  followed  she  never  moved. 

"  I  know  you,"  he  said,  "  to  be  courageous,  and  must 
ask  you  to  believe  that  I  exaggerate  nothing  in  what  I 
am  about  to  tell  you.  I  tell  it  to  j^ou  instead  of  leaving 
Paul  to  do  so  because  I  knOw  his  complete  fearlessness, 
and  his  blind  faitli  in  a  people  who  are  unworthy  of  it. 
lie  does  not  realize  the  gravity  of  the  situation.  They 
are  liis  own  peo)>le.  A  sailor  never  believes  that  his 
own  ship  is  nnseawortli}^" 

"  Go  on  !  "  said  Etta,  for  he  had  paused. 


AN    APPEAL  303 

*'  This  country,"  he  continued,  "  is  unsettled.  The 
people  of  the  estate  are  on  the  brink  of  a  revolt.  You 
know  what  the  Russian  peasant  is.  It  will  be  no  Parisian 
unieute,  half  noise,  half  laughter.  We  cannot  hope  to 
Iiold  this  old  place  against  them.  We  cannot  get  away 
iroiu  it.  We  cannot  send  for  help  because  we  have  no 
one  to  send.  Princess,  this  is  no  time  for  half-confi- 
dences. I  know — for  I  know  these  people  better  even 
tiian  Paul  knows  them — I  am  convinced  that  this 
is  not  the  outcome  of  their  own  brains.  They  are 
being  urged  on  by  some  one.  There  is  some  one  at 
their  backs.  This  is  no  revolt  of  the  peasants,  organ- 
ized by  the  peasants.  Princess,  you  must  tell  me  all 
you  know  ! " 

"  I — I,"  she  stammered,  "  I  know  nothing  !  " 

And  then  suddenly  she  burst  into  tears,  and  buried 
her  face  in  a  tin}'^,  useless  handkerchief.  It  was  so  unlike 
her  and  so  sudden  that  Steinmetz  was  startled. 

He  laid  his  great  hand  soothingly  on  her  shoulder. 

"I  know,"  he  said  quietly,  "I  know  more  than  you 
think.  I  am  no  saint,  princess,  myself.  I  too  have  had 
my  difficulties.  I  have  had  my  temptations,  and  I  have 
not  always  resisted.  God  knows  it  is  difficult  for  men 
to  do  always  the  right  thing.  It  is  a  thousand  times 
more  difficult  for  women.  When  we  spoke  together  in 
Petersburg,  and  I  offered  you  my  poor  friendship,  1  was 
not  acting  in  the  dark.  I  knew  as  much  then  as  I  do 
now.  Princess,  I  knew  about  the  Charity  League  papers 
I  knew  more  than  any  except  Stepan  Lanovitcl),  and  it 
was  he  who  told  me." 

He  was  stroking  her  shoulder  with  the  soothing  move- 
ments that  one  uses  toward  a  child  in  distress.  His 
great  hand,  broad  and  thick,  had  a  certain  sense  of  quiet 
comfort  and  strength  in  it.  Etta  ceased  sobbing,  and 
sat  with  bowed  head,  looking  throngli  her  tears  into  the 
gay  wood  fire.     It  is  probable  that  she  failed  to  realize 


304  THE     SOWEES 

the  great  charity  of  the  man  who  was  speaking  to  lier. 
For  the  capacity  for  evil  merges  at  some  point  or  other 
into  incapability  for  comprehending  good. 

"  Is  that  all  he  knows  ?  "  she  was  wondering. 

Tlie  suggestion  that  Sydney  Bamborough  was  not 
^ead  had  risen  up  to  eclipse  all  other  fear  in  her  mind. 
In  some  part  her  tliought  reached  him. 

"  I  know  so  much,"  he  said,  "  that  it  is  safest  to  tell 
me  more.  I  offered  you  my  friendship  because  I  think 
that  no  woman  could  carry  through  j^our  difficulties 
unaided.  Princess,  the  admiration  of  Claude  de  Chaux- 
ville  may  be  pleasant,  but  I  venture  to  think  that  my 
friendship  is  essential." 

Etta  raised  her  head  a  little.  She  was  within  an  ace 
of  handing  over  to  Karl  Steinmet/  the  rod  of  poAver 
lield  over  her  by  tlie  Frenchman.  There  was  something 
in  Steinmetz  that  appealed  to  her  and  softened  her, 
something  that  reached  a  tender  part  of  her  heart 
through  the  coating  of  vanit}'',  through  the  hardness  of 
worldly  experience. 

"I  have  known  De  Chauxville  twenty-five  years,"  he 
went  on,  and  Etta  deferred  her  confession.  "  We  have 
never  been  good  friends,  I  admit.  I  am  no  saint,  prin- 
cess, but  De  Chauxville  is  a  villain.  Some  day  you  ma}^ 
discover,  when  it  is  too  late,  that  it  would  have  been  for 
Paul's  happiness,  for  your  happiness,  for  every  one's 
good  to  have  nothing  more  to  do  with  Claude  de  Chaux- 
ville. I  want  to  save  you  that  discovery.  Will  you  act 
upon  my  advice  ?  Will  you  make  a  stand  now  ?  Will 
you  come  to  me  and  tell  me  all  that  De  Chauxville 
knows  about  you  that  he  could  ever  use  against  you? 
Will  3^ou  give  yourself  into  m}^  hands — give  me  your 
battle  to  fight  ?  You  cannot  do  it  alone.  Onl}^  believe 
in  my  friendship,  princess.     That  is  all  I  ask." 

Etta  shook  her  head. 

"I  think  not,"  she  answered,  in  a  voice  too  light,  too 


AN    APPEAL  305 

superficial,  too  lK)pelessly  shallow  for  the  depth  of  the 
moment.  She  was  thinking  only  of  Sydney  Bamboiough, 
and  of  that  dread  secret.  She  fought  with  what  arms 
she  wielded  best — the  lightest,  the  quickest,  the  most 
baffling. 

"  As  you  will,"  said  Steiumetz. 


CHAPTER  XXXV 

ON    THE    EDGE    OF    THE    STORM 

A  Russian  village  kabak,  with  a  smoking  lamp,  of 
which  the  chimney  is  broken.  The  greasy  curtains 
drawn  across  the  small  windows  exclude  the  faintest 
possibility  of  a  draught.  The  raoujik  does  not  like  a 
draught  ;  in  fact,  he  hates  the  fresh  air  of  heaven.  Air 
that  has  been  breathed  three  or  four  times  over  is  the 
air  for  him  ;  it  is  Avarmer,  The  atmosphere  of  this 
particular  inn  is  not  unlike  thnt  of  every  other  inn  in  the 
White  Empire,  inasmuch  as  it  is  heavily  seasoned  with 
the  scent  of  cabbage  soup.  The  odor  of  tliis  nourishing 
compound  is  only  exceeded  in  unpleasantness  b}''  the 
taste  of  the  same.  Added  to  this  warm  smell  there  is 
the  smoke  of  a  score  of  the  very  cheapest  cigarettes. 
The  Russian  peasant  smokes  his  cigarette  now.  It  is 
the  lirst  step,  and  it  does  not  cost  him  much.  It  is  the 
dawn  of  progress — the  thin  end  of  the  wedge  which  will 
broaden  out  into  anarch}^  Tlie  poor  man  who  smokes 
a  cigarette  is  sure  to  pass  on  to  socialistic  opinions  and 
troubles  in  the  market-place.  Witness  the  cigarette- 
smoking  countries.  Moreover,  this  same  poor  man  is 
not  a  pleasant  companion.     He  smokes  a  poor  cigarette. 

There  is  also  the  smell  of  vodka,  wdiich  bottled  curse 
is  standing  in  tumblers  all  down  the  long  table.  The 
news  lias  spread  in  Osterno  that  vodka  is  to  be  had  for 
tlie  asking  at  the  kabak,  where  there  is  a  meeting. 
Needless  to  sa}^  the  meeting  is  a  large  one.  Foolishness 
and  thirst  are  often  found  in  the  same  head — a  cranium 


ON    THE    EDGE    OF    THE    STORM  307 

which,  oy  the  way,  is  exceptionally  liable  to  be  turned 
by  knowledge  or  drink. 

If  tlie  drink  at  the  kabak  of  Osterno  was  dangerous, 
the  knowledge  was  no  less  so. 

"  I  tell  you,  little  fathers,"  an  orator  was  shouting, 
■^  that  the  day  of  the  capitalist  has  gone.  The  rieli 
men — the  princes,  the  nobles,  the  great  merchants,  the 
monopolists,  the  tchinovniks — tremble.  They  know 
that  the  poor  man  is  awakening  at  last  from  his  long 
letliargy.  What  have  we  done  in  Germany?  What 
have  we  done  in  America  ?  What  have  we  done  in 
England  and  France  ?  " 

Whereupon  he  banged  an  unwashed  fist  u])on  the 
table  with  such  emphasis  that  more  than  one  of  the 
audience  clutched  his  glass  of  vodka  in  alarm,  lest  a 
drop  of  the  precious  liquor  should  be  w^asted. 

No  one  seemed  to  know  what  had  been  done  in  Ger- 
many, in  America,  in  England,  or  in  France.  Tlie 
people's  orator  is  a  man  of  many  questions  and  much 
fist-banging.  The  moujiks  of  Osterno  gazed  at  him 
beneath  their  shaggy  brows.  Half  of  them  did  not 
understand  him.  They  were  as  yet  uneducated  to  a 
comprehension  of  the  street  orator's  periods.  A  few  of 
the  more  intelligent  waited  for  him  to  answer  his  own 
questions,  Avhich  he  failed  to  do.  A  vague  and  ominous 
question  carries  as  much  weight  with  some  people  as 
a  statement,  and  has  the  signal  advantage  of  being  less 
incriminating. 

The  speaker — a  neckless,  broad-shouldered  rufiian  of 
the  type  known  in  England  as  "  unemployed  " — looked 
round  with  triumphant  head  well  thrown  back.  From 
his  attitude  it  was  obvious  that  he  had  been  the  salva- 
tion of  the  countries  named,  and  had  now  come  to  Russia 
to  do  the  same  for  her.  lie  spoke  with  the  throaty 
accent  of  the  Pole.  It  was  quite  evident  that  his  speech 
was  a  written  one — probably  a  printed  harangue  issued 


308  THE     SOWERS 

to  bim  and  his  compeers  for  circulation  tlironghout  the 
country.  He  delivered  many  of  the  longer  words  with 
a  certain  unctuous  roll  of  tlie  tongue,  and  an  emphasis 
indicating  the  fact  that  he  did  not  know  their  meaning, 

"  From  afar,"  he  went  on,  "  we  have  long  been  watch- 
ing you.  We  have  noted  your  difficulties  and  your  hard- 
ships, your  sickness,  your  starvation.  '  These  men  of 
Tver,'  we  have  said,  *are  brave  and  true  and  steadfast. 
We  will  tell  them  of  liberty.'  So  I  have  come  to  you, 
and  I  am  glad  to  see  you.  Alexander  Alexandrovitch, 
pass  the  bottle  down  the  table.  You  see,  little  fathers, 
I  have  not  come  begging  for  your  mone3\  No  ;  keep 
your  kopecks  in  your  pocket.  We  do  not  want  your 
money.  We  are  no  tchinovniks.  We  prove  it  by  giv- 
ing you  vodka  to  keep  your  throats  wet  and  your  ears 
open.     Fill  up  your  glasses — fill  up  your  glasses  !  " 

Tiie  little  fathers  of  Osterno  understood  this  part  of 
the  harangue  perfectly,  and  acted  upon  it. 

The  orator  scratched  his  head  reflectively.  There 
was  a  certain  business-like  mouthing  of  his  periods, 
showing  that  he  had  learnt  all  this  by  heart.  He  did 
not  press  all  his  points  home  in  the  manner  of  one 
speaking  from  his  own  brain. 

"I  see  before  me,"  he  went  on,  without  an  overplus 
of  sequence,  "men  worthy  to  take  their  place  among 
the  rulers  of  the  world— eh— er— rulers  of  the  world, 
little  fathers." 

He  paused  and  drank  half  a  tumbler  of  vodka.  His 
last  statement  was  so  obviously  inapplicable — what  he 
actually  did  see  was  so  very  far  removed  from  what  he 
said  he  saw — that  he  decided  to  relinquish  the  point. 

"  I  drink,"  he  cried,  "  to  Liberty  and  Equality  !  " 

Some  of  the  little  fathers  also  drank,  to  assuage  an 
hereditar}^  thirst. 

"And  now,"  continued  the  orator,  "let  us  get  to 
business.     I  think  we  understand  each  other  ?  " 


ON  THE  EDGE  OF  THE  STORM  309 

He  looked  round  with  an  engaging  smile  iq)on  faces 
brutal  enougli  to  suit  his  purpose,  but  quite  devoid  of 
intelligence.     Tliere  was  not  much  understanding  there. 

"Tlie  poor  man  lias  one  only  way  of  making  himself 
felt — force.  We  have  worked  for  generations,  we  have 
toiled  in  silence,  and  we  have  gathered  strength.  The 
time  ]kis  now  come  for  us  to  put  forth  our  strength. 
The  time  has  gone  by  for  merely  asking  for  what  we 
want.  We  asked,  and  they  heard  us  not.  We  will  now 
go  and  take  !  " 

A  few  who  had  heard  this  speech  or  something  like  it 
before  shouted  their  applause  at  this  moment.  Before 
the  noise  had  subsided  the  door  opened,  and  two  or 
tliree  men  pusiied  their  way  into  the  already  over- 
crowded room. 

"  Come  in,  come  in  !  "  cried  the  orator  ;  "  the  more 
the  better.  You  are  all  welcome.  All  we  require,  then, 
little  fathers,  is  organization.  There  are  nine  hundred 
souls  in  Osterno  ;  are  you  going  to  bow  down  before 
one  man  ?  All  men  are  equal — moujik  and  barin,  krest- 
yanin  and  prince.  Why  do  you  not  go  up  to  the  castle 
that  frowns  down  upon  the  village,  and  tell  the  man. 
there  that  you  are  starving,  that  he  must  feed  you,  that 
you  are  not  going  to  work  from  dawn  till  eve  while  he 
sits  on  his  velvet  couch  and  smokes  his  gold-tipped 
cigarettes.  Why  do  you  not  go  and  tell  him  that  you 
are  not  ofoino:  to  starve  and  die  while  he  eats  caviare 
and  peaches  from  gold  plates  and  dishes?" 

A  resounding  bang  of  the  hst  finished  this  fine  ora- 
tion, and  again  the  questions  were  unanswered. 

*'  They  are  all  the  same,  these  aristocrats,"  the  man 
thundered  on.  "  Your  prince  is  as  the  others,  I  make 
no  doubt.  Indeed,  I  know  ;  for  I  have  been  told  by 
our  good  friend  Abramitch  here.  A  clever  man  our 
friend  Abramitch,  and  when  you  get  your  liberty — when 
you  get  j^our  Mir — you  must  keep  him  in  mind.     Your 


310  THE     SOWERS 

prince,  tlien — this  Howard  Alexis — treats  you  like  the 
dirt  beneath  his  feet.  Is  it  not  so  ?  He  will  not  listen 
to  your  cry  of  hunger.  He  will  not  give  you  a  few 
crumbs  of  food  from  his  gold  dislies.  He  will  not  give 
you  a  few  kopecks  of  the  millions  of  rubles  that  he 
possesses.  And  where  did  he  get  those  rubles  ?  Ah  I 
where  did  he  get  them — eh  ?     Tell  me  that  !  " 

Again  the  interrogative  unwashed  fist.  As  the 
orator's  wild  and  frenzied  eye  travelled  round  the  room 
it  lighted  on  a  form  near  the  door — a  man  standing  a 
head  and  shoulders  above  any  one  in  the  room,  a  man 
enveloped  in  an  old  brown  coat,  with  a  woollen  shawl 
round  his  throat,  hiding  half  his  face. 

"  Who  is  that  ?  "  cried  the  orator,  with  an  unsteady, 
pointing  finger.  "  He  is  no  moujik.  Is  that  a  tchinov- 
nik,  little  fathers  ?  Has  he  come  here  to  our  meeting  to 
spy  upon  us  ?  " 

"  You  may  ask  them  who  I  am,"  replied  the  giant, 
*'  They  know  ;  they  will  tell  you.  It  is  not  the  first 
time  tliat  I  tell  them  they  are  fools.  I  tell  them  again 
now.  They  are  fools  and  worse  to  listen  to  such  wind- 
bags as  you." 

"Who  is  it?"  cried  the  paid  agitator.  "Who  is 
this  man  ?" 

His  eyes  were  red  with  anger  and  with  vodka  ;  his 
voice  was  unsteady.     His  outstretched  hand  shook. 

"  It  is  the  Moscow  doctor,"  said  a  man  beside  him — 
"  the  Moscow  doctor." 

"  Then  I  say  he  is  no  doctor  !  "  shouted  the  orator, 
"  He  is  a  spy — a  Government  spy,  a  tchinovnik  !  He 
lias  heard  all  we  have  said.  He  has  seen  you  all. 
Brothers,  that  man  must  not  leave  this  room  alive.  If 
he  does,  j^ou  are  lost  men  !  " 

Some  few  of  the  more  violent  s])irits  rose  and  pressed 
tumultuously  toward  the  door.  The  agitator  shouted 
and    screamed,  urging   them    on,  taking   good    care  to 


ON  THE  i:dge  of  the  storm  311 

remain  in  the  safe  backgronnd  himself.  Every  man  in 
tlic  room  rose  to  liis  feet.  They  were  full  of  vodka  nnd 
fury  and  ignorance.  Spirit  and  tall  talk,  taken  on  an 
empty  stomach,  are  dangerous  stimulants. 

Paul  stood  with  his  back  to  the  door  and  never  moved. 

"  Sit  down,  fools  !  "  he  cried.  "  Sit  down  !  Listen  to 
ne.     You  dare  not  touch  me  ;  you  know  that." 

It  seemed  that  lie  was  right,  for  they  stopped  with  star- 
ing, stupid  eyes  and  idle  hands. 

"  Will  you  listen  to  me,  whom  you  have  known  for 
years,  or  to  this  talker  from  the  town  ?  Choose  now. 
I  am  tired  of  you.  I  have  been  patient  with  you  for 
years.  You  are  sheep  ;  are  you  fools  also,  to  be  dazzled 
by  the  words  of  an  idle  talker  who  promises  all  and  gives 
nothing  ?  " 

There  was  a  sullen  silence.  Paul  had  lost  his  power 
over  them,  and  he  knew  it.  He  was  quite  cool  and 
watchful.  He  knew  that  he  Avas  in  danger.  These 
men  were  wild  and  ignorant.  They  were  mad  with 
drink  and  the  brave  words  of  the  agitator. 

"Choose  now!"  he  shouted,  feeling  for  the  handle 
of  the  door  behind  his  back. 

They  made  no  sign,  but  watched  the  faces  of  their 
leaders. 

"  If  I  go  now,"  said  Paul,  "  I  never  come  again  !  " 

He  opened  tlie  door.  The  men  whom  he  had  nursed 
and  clothed  and  fed,  whose  lives  he  had  saved  again 
and  again,  stood  sullen  and  silent. 

Paul  passed  slowly  out  and  closed  the  door  behind 
him.  Without  it  was  dark  and  still.  There  would  be 
a  moon  presently,  and  in  the  meantime  it  was  preparing 
to  freeze  harder  than  ever. 

Paul  walked  slowly  up  the  village  street,  while  two 
men  emerged  separately  from  the  darkness  of  by-lanes 
and  followed  him.  He  did  not  heed  them.  He  was  not 
aware  that  the   thermometer  stood    somewhere   below 


312  THE     SOWERS 

zoi-o.  lie  (lid  not  even  trouble  to  draw  on  his  fur 
gloves. 

He  felt  like  a  man  whose  own  dogs  have  turned 
against  him.  The  place  that  these  peasants  had  occu- 
pied in  his  heart  had  been  precisely  that  vacancy  which 
is  filled  by  dogs  and  horses  in  the  hearts  of  man^^  men. 
Tiicre  was  in  his  feeling  for  them  that  knowledge  of  a 
complete  dependence  by  which  young  chiklren  draw  and 
hold  a  mother's  love. 

Paul  Howard  Alexis  was  not  a  man  to  analyze  his 
thoughts.  Your  strong  man  is  usually  ignorant  of  the 
existence  of  his  own  feelings.  He  is  never  conscious 
of  them.  Paul  walked  slowly  through  the  village  of 
Osterno,  and  realized,  in  his  uncompromising  honesty, 
that  of  the  nine  hundred  men  Avho  lived  therein  there 
were  not  three  upon  whom  he  could  rely.  He  had  up- 
held his  peasants  for  years  agains*  the  cynic  truths  of 
Karl  Steinmetz.  He  had  resolutely  refused  to  admit 
even  to  himself  that  they  w^ere  as  devoid  of  gratitude 
as  they  were  of  wisdom.     And  this  was  the  end  of  all ! 

One  of  the  men  following  him  hurried  on  and  caught 
him  up. 

"  Excellency,"  he  gasped,  breathless  with  his  haste, 
"  you  must  not  come  here  alone  any  longer.  I  am  afraid 
of  them — I  have  no  control." 

Paul  paused,  and  suited  his  pace  to  the  shorter  legs  of 
liis  companion. 

"  Starosta  !  "  he  said.     "  Is  that  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Excellency.  I  saw  you  go  into  the  kabak,  so  I 
waited  outside  and  watched.  I  did  not  dare  to  go  inside. 
Tliey  will  not  allow  me  there.  They  are  afraid  that  I 
should  give  information." 

"  How  long  liave  these  meetings  been  going  on  ?" 

"  The  last  three  nights,  Excellency,  in  Osterno  ;  but 
it  is  the  same  all  over  the  estate." 

"  Only  on  the  estate  ?" 


ON    THE    EDGE    OF   THE    STORM  313 

"  Yes,  KxcollciK'.y." 

*'  Arc  you  sure  of  tluit  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Excellency." 

Paul  walked  on  in  silence  for  some  paces.  The  third 
man  followed  them  without  catching  them  up. 

"  I  do  not  understand.  Excellency,"  said  the  starosta 
anxiously.     "It  is  not  tlie  Nihilists." 

"  No  ;  it  is  not  the  Nihilists." 

"  And  they  do  not  want  mone}^,  Excellency  ;  that 
seems  strange." 

"  Very  !  "  admitted  Paul  ironically. 

"  And  they  give  vodka." 

This  seemed  to  he  the  chief  stumbling-block  in  the 
starosta's  road  to  a  solution  of  the  mystery. 

"  Find  out  for  me,"  said  Paul,  after  a  pause,  "  who 
this  man  is,  where  he  comes  from,  and  how  much  he  is 
paid  to  open  his  mouth.  We  will  pay  him  more  to  shut 
it.  Find  out  as  much  as  you  can,  and  let  me  know  to- 
morrow." 

"I  will  try.  Excellency;  but  I  have  little  hope  of 
succeeding.  They  distrust  me.  They  send  the  children 
to  my  shop  for  what  they  want,  and  the  little  ones  have 
evidently  been  told  not  to  chatter.  The  moujiks  avoid 
me  when  they  meet  me.     What  can  I  do  ?  " 

"  You  can  show  them  that  you  are  not  afraid  of  them," 
answered  Paul.  "  That  goes  a  long  way  with  the 
moujik." 

They  walked  on  together  through  the  lane  of  cottages, 
where  furtive  forms  lurked  in  door-waj^s  and  behind 
curtains.  And  Paul  had  only  one  word  of  advice  to 
give,  upon  which  he  harped  continually  :  "Be  thou 
very  courageous — be  thou  very  courageous."  Nothing 
new,  for  so  it  was  written  in  the  oldest  book  of  all.  The 
starosta  was  a  timorous  man,  needing  such  strong  sup- 
port as  his  master  gave  him  from  time  to  time. 

At  the  great  gates  of  the  pnrk  tliey  i);iiis('(l,  and  Paul 


314  THE     SOWERS 

gave  the  mayor  of  Osteriio  a  few  last  words  of  advice. 
WJiile  tliey  were  standing  tliere  the  other  man  wlio  had 
been  following  joined  them. 

"Is  that  yon,  Steinmetz?"  asked  Paul,  his  hand 
thrust  with  suspicious  speed  into  his  jacket  pocket. 

"Yes." 

"  What  are  you  doing  here?  " 

"  Watching  you,"  answered  Karl  Steinmetz,  in  his 
mild  way.  "  It  is  no  longer  safe  for  eitlier  of  us  to  go 
about  alone.  It  was  mere  foolery  vour  j^oing  to  that 
kabak." 


CHAPTER  XXXVI 

A    TKOIS 

Of  all  the  rooms  in  the  great  castle  Etta  liked  the 
morning-room  best.  Persons  of  a  troubled  mind  usually 
love  to  look  upon  a  wide  prospect.  The  mind,  no  doubt, 
fears  the  unseen  approach  of  detection  or  danger,  and 
transmits  this  dread  to  the  eye,  which  likes  to  command 
a  wide  view  all  around. 

The  great  drawing-room  was  only  used  after  dinner. 
Until  that  time  the  ladies  spent  the  day  either  in  their 
own  boudoirs  or  in  the  morning-room  looking  over  the 
cliff.  Here,  while  the  cold  weatlier  lasted,  Etta  had 
tea  served,  and  thither  the  gentlemen  usually  repaired 
at  the  hour  set  apart  for  the  homely  meal.  They  had 
come  regularl}'^  the  last  few  evenings.  Paul  and  Stein- 
metz  had  suddenl}^  given  up  their  long  drives  to  distant 
parts  of  the  estate. 

Here  the  whole  party  was  assembled  on  the  Sunday 
afternoon  following  Paul's  visit  to  the  village  kabak, 
and  to  them  came  an  unexpected  guest.  The  door  was 
thrown  open,  and  Claude  do  Chauxville,  pale,  but  self- 
possessed  and  quiet,  came  into  the  room.  The  perfect 
ease  of  his  manner  bespoke  a  practised  familiaritj^  witli 
the  position  difficult.  His  last  parting  with  Paul  and 
Steinmetz  had  been,  to  say  the  least  of  it,  strained. 
Maggie,  he  knew,  disliked  and  distrusted  him.  Etta 
hated  and  feared  liim. 

He  was  in  riding  costume — a  short  fur  jacket,  fur 
gloves,  a  cap  in  his  hand,  and  a  silver-mounted  crop.     A 


316  THE     SOWERS 

fine  figure  of  a  man — smart,  well  tarned  out,  well- 
groomed — a  gentleman.    , 

"Prince,"  he  said  frankly,  "I  have  come  to  throw 
myself  upon  your  generosity.  Will  you  lend  me  a 
horse  ?  I  was  riding  in  the  forest  when  my  horse  fell 
over  a  root  and  lamed  himself.  I  found  I  was  only  tliree 
miles  from  Osterno,  so  I  came.  My  misfortune  must  be 
my  excuse  for  this — intrusion." 

Paul  performed  graciously  enough  that  which  charity 
and  politeness  demanded  of  him.  There  are  plenty  of 
people  who  trade  unscrupulously  upon  these  demands, 
but  it  is  probable  that  they  mostly  have  their  reward. 
Love  and  friendship  are  stronger  than  charity  and  polite- 
ness, and  those  who  trade  upon  tlie  latter  are  rarely 
accorded  the  former. 

So  Paul  ignored  the  probability  that  De  Cliauxville 
had  lamed  his  horse  on  purpose,  and  offered  him  refresh- 
ment while  his  saddle  was  being  transferred  to  the  back 
of  a  fresh  mount.  Farther  than  that  he  did  not  go. 
He  did  not  consider  himself  called  upon  to  offer  a  night's 
hospitality  to  the  man  who  had  attempted  to  murder 
him  a  week  before. 

With  engaging  frankness  De  Chauxville  accepted 
every  tiling.  It  is  an  art  soon  acquired  and  soon  abused. 
There  is  something  honest  in  an  ungracious  acceptance 
of  favors.  Steinmetz  suggested  that  perhaps  M.  de 
Chauxville  had  lunched  sparsel}^,  and  the  Frenchman 
admitted  that  such  was  the  case,  but  that  he  loved  after- 
noon tea  above  all  meals. 

"It  is  so  innocent  and  simple — I  know.  I  have 
the  same  feeling  myself,"  concurred  Steinmetz  cour- 
teously. 

"  Do  you  ride  about  the  country  much  alone  ?  "  asked 
Paul,  while  the  servants  were  setting  before  this  un- 
invited guest  a  few  more  substantial  delicacies. 

"  All,  no,  prince  !     This  is  my  first  attempt,  and  if  it 


A    TROIS 


317 


had  not  procured  me  this  pleasure  I  slionld  say  that  it 
will  be  my  last." 

"  It  is  easy  to  lose  yourself,"  said  Paul  ;  "  besides  " 
—and  the  two  friends  watched  the  Frenchman's 
face  closely— "  besides,  the  country  is  disturbed  at 
present." 

De  Chauxville  was  helping  himself  daintily  to  pate  de 
foie  gras. 

'^Ah,  indeed  !  Is  that  so  ?  "  he  answered.  "  But  they 
would  not  hurt  me — a  stranger  in  the  land." 

"And  an  orphan,  too,  I  have  no  doubt,"  added  Stein- 
metz,  with  a  laugh.  "  But  would  the  raoujik  pause  to 
enquire,  my  very  dear  De  Chauxville  ?  " 

"At  all  events,  I  should  not  pause  to  answer,"  replied 
the  Frenchman,  in  the  same  light  tone.  "  I  should 
evacuate.  Ah,  mademoiselle,"  he  went  on,  addressing 
Maggie,  "  they  have  been  attempting  to  frighten  you,  I 
suspect,  with  their  stories  of  disturbed  peasantry.  It  is 
to  keep  up  the  lurid  local  color.  They  must  have  their 
romance,  these  Russians." 

And  so  the  ball  was  kept  rolling.  There  was  never 
any  lack  of  conversation  when  Steinmetz  and  De  Chaux- 
ville were  together,  nor  was  the  talk  without  sub-flavor 
of  acidity.  At  length  the  centre  of  attention  himself 
diverted  that  attention.  Ho  inaugurated  an  argument 
over  the  best  cross-country  route  from  Osternoto  Thors, 
which  sent  Steinmetz  out  of  the  room  for  a  map.  Dur- 
ing the  absence  of  the  Avatchful  German  he  admired  the 
view  from  the  window,  and  this  strategetic  movement 
enabled  him  to  say  to  Etta  aside  : 

"  I  must  see  you  before  I  leave  the  house  ;  it  is  abso- 
lutely necessary." 

Not  long  after  the  return  of  Steinmetz  and  the  final 
decision  respecting  the  road  to  Thors,  Etta  left  tlie 
room,  and  a  few  minutes  later  the  servant  announced 
that  the  baron's  horse  was  at  the  door. 


318  THE     SOWERS 

De  Chauxville  took  his  leave  at  once,  with  many 
assurances  of  lasting  gratitude. 

"  Kindl}^"  he  added,  "  make  m}'-  adieux  to  tlie  prin- 
cess ;  I  will  not  trouble  her." 

Quite  by  accident  he  met  Etta  at  the  liead  of  the  state 
staircase,  and  expressed  such  admiration  for  the  castle 
that  she  opened  the  door  of  tlie  large  drawing-room  and 
took  him  to  see  that  apartment. 

"  What  I  arranged  for  Tiiursda^y  is  for  the  day  after 
to-morrow — Tuesday,"  said  De  Chauxville,  as  soon  as 
they  were  alone.  "  We  cannot  keep  them  back  any 
longer.  You  understand — the  side  door  to  be  opened  at 
seven  o'clock.     Ah  !  who  is  this?" 

They  both  turned.  Steinmetz  was  standing  behind 
them,  but  he  could  not  have  heard  De  Cliauxville's 
words.  He  closed  the  door  carefulh^,  and  came  forward 
with  his  grim  smile. 

"  A  nous  trois  !  "  he  said,  and  the  subsequent  conver- 
sation was  in  the  language  in  which  these  three  under- 
stood each  other  best. 

De  Chauxville  bit  his  lip  and  waited.  It  was  a 
moment  of  the  tensest  suspense. 

"  A  nous  trois  !  "  repeated  Steinmetz.  "  De  Chaux- 
ville, you  love  an  epigram.  The  man  who  overestimates 
the  foolishness  of  others  is  himself  the  biggest  fool  con- 
cerned. A  lame  horse — the  prince's  generosity — mak- 
ing your  adieux.  Mon  Dieu  !  you  should  know  me 
better  than  that  after  all  these  years.  No,  you  need  not 
look  at  the  door.  No  one  will  interrupt  us.  I  have 
seen  to  that." 

His  attitude  and  manner  indicated  a  complete  mas- 
tery of  the  situation,  but  whether  this  assumption  was 
justified  by  fact  or  Avas  a  mere  trick  it  was  impossible  to 
say.  There  was  in  the  man  something  strong  and  good 
and  calm — a  manner  never  acquired  by  one  wl'O  has 
anything  to  conceal.     His  dignity  was  perfect.      One 


A    TROIS  319 

forgot  his  stoutness,  liis  heavy  breatliing,  his  ungainly 
size.  He  was  essentially  manly,  and  a  presence  to  be 
feared.     The  strengtli  of  his  will  made  itself  felt. 

He  turned  to  tlie  princess  with  the  grave  courtesy 
that  always  marked  his  attitude  toward  her. 

*' Madame,"  he  said,  *' I  fully  recognize  your  clever- 
ness in  raising  yourself  to  the  position  you  now  occupy. 
But  I  would  remind  yon  that  that  position  carries  with 
it  certain  obligations.  It  is  hardly  dignified  for  a 
princess  to  engage  herself  in  a  vulgar  love  intrigue  in 
her  own  house." 

"It  is  not  a  vulgar  love  intrigue  !"  cried  Etta,  with 
blazing  eyes.  "I  will  not  allow  yon  to  say  that !  Where 
is  your  boasted  friendship?     Is  this  a  sample  of  it?  " 

Karl  Steinmetz  bowed  gravel}^,  with  outspread  hands. 

"Madame,  that  friendship  is  at  your  service,  now  as 
alwaj^s." 

De  Chauxville  gave  a  scornful  little  laugh.  He  was 
biting  the  end  of  his  mustaclic  as  he  watched  Etta's 
face.  For  a  moment  the  woman  stood — not  the  first 
woman  to  stand  thus — between  two  fears.  Then  she 
turned  to  Steinmetz.  The  victory  wns  his — the  greatest 
he  had  ever  torn  from  the  grasp  of  Claude  de  Chauxville. 

"  You  know,"  she  said,  "  that  this  man  has  me  in  his 
power." 

"  You  alone.  But  not  both  of  us  together,"  answered 
Steinmetz. 

De  Chauxville  looked  uneasy.  He  gave  a  careless 
little  laugh. 

"  My  good  Steinmetz,  j^ou  allow  j^our  imagination  to 
run  away  with  you.  You  interfere  in  what  does  not 
concern  you." 

"My  very  dear  De  Chauxville,  I  think  not.  At  all 
events,  I  am  going  to  continue  to  interfere." 

Etta  looked  from  one  to  the  other.  She  had  at  the 
first   impulse  gone    over  to   Steinmetz.     She    was   now 


320  THE     SOWERS 

meditating  drawing  back.  If  De  Chauxville  kept  cool 
all  might  yet  be  well — the  dread  secret  of  the  prob- 
ability of  Sydney  Bamborougli  being  alive  might  still 
be  withheld  from  Steinraetz.  For  the  moment  it  would 
appear  that  she  was  about  to  occupy  the  ignominious 
position  of  the  bone  of  contention.  If  these  two  men 
were  going  to  use  her  as  a  mere  excuse  to  settle  a  life- 
long  quarrel  of  many  issues,  it  was  probable  that  there 
would  not  be  much  left  of  her  character  by  the  time 
that  they  had  finished. 

She  had  to  decide  quickl}^  She  decided  to  assume 
the  role  of  peacemaker. 

"M.  de  Chauxville  was  on  the  point  of  going,"  she 
said.     "  Let  him  go." 

"  M.  de  Chauxville  is  not  going  until  I  have  finished 
with  him,  madame.  This  may  be  the  last  time  we  meet. 
I  hope  it  is." 

De  Chauxville  looked  uneas}^  His  was  a  ready  wit, 
and  fear  was  the  only  feeling  that  paralyzed  it.  Etta 
looked  at  him.  Was  his  wit  going  to  desert  him  now 
when  he  most  needed  it?  He  had  ridden  boldly  into 
the  lion's  den.  Such  a  proceeding  requires  a  certain 
courage,  but  a  higher  form  of  intrepidity  is  required  to 
face  the  lion  standing  before  the  exit. 

De  Chauxville  looked  at  Steinmetz  with  shifty  ej^es. 
He  was  very  like  the  mask  of  the  lynx  in  the  smoking- 
room,  even  to  the  self-conscious,  deprecatory  smile  on 
the  countenance  of  the  forest  sneak. 

"Keep  your  temper,"  he  said  ;  "do  not  let  us  quarrel 
in  the  presence  of  a  lady." 

"  No  ;  we  will  keep  the  quarrel  till  afterward." 

Steinmetz  turned  to  Etta. 

"  Princess,"  he  said,  "  will  you  now,  in  my  presence, 
forbid  this  man  to  come  to  this  or  any  other  house  of 
yours?  Will  j^ou  forbid  him  to  address  himself  either 
by  speech  or  letter  to  j'ou  again  ?" 


A    TROTS  321 

*' You  know  I  cannot  do  that,"  replied  Etta. 

"Why  not?" 

Etta  made  no  answer. 

"Because,"  replied  De  Chauxville  for  lier,  "the 
princess  is  too  wise  to  make  an  enemy  of  me.  In  that 
respect  she  is  wiser  than  you.  She  knows  that  I  could 
send  you  and  your  prince  to  Siberia." 

Stein metz  laughed. 

"Nonsense!"  he  said.  "Princess,"  he  went  on,  "if 
you  think  that  the  fact  of  De  Chauxville  numbering 
among  his  friends  a  few  obscure  police  spies  gives  him 
the  right  to  persecute  j'ou,  3^ou  are  mistaken.  Our 
friend  is  very  clever,  but  he  can  do  no  harm  with  the 
little  that  he  knows  of  the  Charity  League." 

Etta  remained  silent.  The  silence  made  Steinmetz 
frown. 

"Princess,"  he  said  gravely,  "you  were  indignant 
just  now  because  I  made  so  bold  as  to  put  the  most 
natural  construction  upon  the  circumstances  in  which 
I  found  you.  It  was  a  prearranged  meeting  between 
De  Chauxville  and  yourself.  If  the  meeting  was  not 
the  outcome  of  an  intrigue  such  as  I  mentioned,  nor 
the  result  of  this  man's  hold  over  you  on  account  of 
the  Charity  League,  what  was  it  ?  I  beg  of  you  to 
answer." 

Etta  made  no  reply.  Instead,  she  raised  her  e^^es  and 
looked  at  De  Chauxville. 

"  Without  going  into  affairs  which  do  not  concern 
you,"  said  the  Frenchman,  answering  for  her,  "I  think 
you  will  recognize  that  the  secret  of  the  Charity  League 
was  quite  sufficient  excuse  for  me  to  request  a  few 
minutes  alone  with  the  princess." 

Of  this  Steinmetz  took  no  notice.  He  was  standing 
in  front  of  Etta,  between  De  Chauxville  and  the  door. 
His  broad,  deeply  lined  face  was  flushed  with  the  excite- 
ment of  the  moment.  His  great  mournful  eyes,  yellow 
21 


322  THE     SOWERS 

and  drawn  with  much  reading  and  the  hardships  of  a 
rigorous  climate,  were  fixed  anxiousty  on  her  face. 

Etta  was  not  looking  at  him.  Iler  eyes  were  turned 
toward  the  window,  but  they  did  not  see  witli  compre- 
hension.    She  was  stony  and  stubborn. 

"  Princess,"  said  Steinmetz,  ''  answer  me  before  it  is 
too  late.     Has  De  Chaiixville  any  other  liold  over  you  ?  " 

Etta  nodded,  and  the  little  action  brought  a  sudden 
gleam  to  the  Frenchman's  eyes. 

"  If,"  said  Steinmetz,  looking  from  one  to  tlie  other, 
"  if  you  two  liave  been  deceiving  Paul  I  will  have  no 
mercy,  I  warn  you  of  that." 

Etta  turned  on  him„ 

"  Can  you  not  believe  me  ?  "  she  cried.  "  I  have  prac- 
tised no  deception  in  common  with  M.  de  Chauxville." 

"  The  Charity  League  is  quite  enough  for  you,  my 
friend,"  put  in  the  Frenchman  hurriedl}^ 

"  Yon  know  no  more  of  the  Charit}^  League  than  you 
did  before — than  the  whole  world  knew  before — except 
this  lady's  share  in  the  disposal  of  the  papers,"  said 
Steinmetz. 

'^And  this  lady's  share  in  the  disposal  of  the  papers 
will  not  be  welcome  news  to  the  prince,"  answered  De 
Chauxville. 

"Welcome  or  unwelcome^  lie  shall  be  told  of  it  to- 
night." 

Etta  looked  round  sharply-,  her  lips  apart  and  trem- 
bling. 

"  B}^  whom  ?  "  asked  De  Chauxville. 

"  By  me,"  replied  Steinmetz. 

There  was  a  momentaiy  pause.  De  Chauxville  and 
Etta  exchanged  a  glance.  Etta  felt  that  she  was  lost. 
This  Frenchman  was  not  one  to  spare  either  man  or 
woman  from  any  motive  of  charity  or  chivahy. 

"  Even  if  that  is  so,"  he  said,  "  the  princess  is  not 
relieved  from  the  embarrassment  of  her  situation.'' 


A    TROIS  323 

"  No  ?  " 

"No,  ni}^  astute  friend.  There  is  a  little  matter  con- 
nected with  Sydney  Bamborough  Aviiicli  has  come  to  my 
knowledge." 

Etta  moved,  but  she  said  nothing.  Tlie  sound  of  hei 
breathing  was  startlingly  1()U(1. 

"  Ah  !  Sydney  Bamborough,"  said  Steinmetz  slowly. 
«  What  about  him  ?  " 

"  He  is  not  dead  ;  that  is  all." 

Karl  Steinmetz  passed  his  broad  hand  down  over  his 
face,  covering  his  mouth  for  a  second. 

"But  he  died.  He  was  found  on  the  steppe,  and 
buried  at  Tven-." 

"  So  the  story  runs,"  said  De  Chauxville,  with  easy 
sarcasm.  "  But  who  found  him  on  the  steppe  ?  Who 
buried  liim  at  Tver  ?  " 

"  I  did,  my  friend." 

The  next  second  Steinmetz  staggered  back  a  step  or 
two  as  Etta  fell  heavily  into  his  arms.  But  he  never 
took  his  eyes  off  De  Chauxville. 


CHAPTER  XXXVII 

A   DEUX 

Steinmetz  laid  Etta  on  a  sofa.  She  was  already 
recovering  consciousness.  He  rang  the  bell  twice,  and 
all  the  while  he  kept  his  eye  on  De  Cliauxville.  A 
quick  touch  on  Etta's  wrist  and  breast  showed  that  this 
man  knew  something  of  women  and  of  those  short-lived 
fainting  fits  that  belong  to  strong  emotions. 

The  maid  soon  came. 

"The  princess  requires  your  attention,"  said  Stein- 
metz, still  watching  De  Chauxville,  who  was  looking  at 
Etta  and  neglecting  his  opportunities. 

Steinmetz  went  up  to  him  and  took  him  by  the  arm. 

"  Come  with  me,"  lie  said. 

The  Frenchman  could  have  taken  advantage  of  the 
presence  of  the  servant  to  effect  a  retreat,  but  he  did  not 
dare  to  do  so.  It  was  essential  that  he  should  obtain  a 
few  words  with  Etta.  To  effect  this,  he  was  ready  even 
to  face  an  interview  with  Steinmetz.  lu  his  heart  he 
was  cursing  that  liabilit}^  to  inconvenient  fainting  fits 
that  make  all  women  uureliable  in  a  moment  of  need. 

He  preceded  Steinmetz  out  of  the  room,  forgetting 
even  to  resent  the  large,  warm  grasp  on  his  arm.  They 
went  through  the  long,  dimly  lit  passage  to  the  old  part 
of  the  castle,  where  Steinmetz  had  his  rooms. 

"  And  now,"  said  Steinmetz,  when  they  w^ere  alone 
with  closed  doors,  "  and  now,  De  Chauxville,  let  us  un- 
derstand each  other." 

De  Chauxville  shrugged  his  slioulders.  He  was  not 
thinking  of  Steinmetz  yet.     He   was  still   thinking  of 


A   DEUX  325 

Etta  and  liow  lie  could  get  speech  with  her.  With  the 
assurance  wliich  had  carried  hiui  througli  many  a  diffi- 
culty before  tliis,  the  Frenchman  looked  round  him, 
taking  in  the  details  of  the  room.  They  were  in  the 
apartment  beyond  the  large  smoking  room — the  ante- 
room, as  it  were,  to  the  little  chamber  where  Paul  kept 
his  medicine-chest,  his  disguise,  all  the  compromising 
details  of  his  work  among  the  peasants.  The  broad 
writing-table  in  the  middle  of  the  room  stood  between 
the  two  men. 

"Do  you  imagine  yourself  in  love  with  the  princess  ?  " 
asked  Steinmetz  suddenly,  with  characteristic  bluntness. 

"  If  you  like,"  returned  the  other. 

"If  I  thought  that  it  was  that,"  said  the  German, 
looking  at  him  thoughtfully,  "  I  would  throw  you  out  of 
the  window.  If  it  is  any  thing  else,  I  will  only  throw 
you  down  stairs." 

De  Chauxville  bit  his  thumb-nail  anxiously.  He 
frowned  across  the  table  into  Steinmetz's  face.  In  all 
their  intercourse  he  had  never  heard  that  tone  of  voice  ; 
he  had  never  seen  quite  that  look  on  the  heavy  face. 
Was  Steinmetz  aroused  at  last  ?  Steinmetz  aroused  was 
an  unknown  quantity  to  Claude  de  Chauxville. 

"  I  have  known  you  now  for  twenty-five  years,"  went 
on  Karl  Steinmetz,  "  and  I  cannot  say  that  I  know  any 
good  of  you.  But  let  that  pass  ;  it  is  not,  I  suppose,  my 
business.  The  world  is  as  the  good  God  made  it.  I  can 
do  nothing  toward  bettering  it.  I  have  always  known 
you  to  be  a  scoundrel — a  fact  to  be  deplored — and  that 
is  all.  But  so  soon  as  your  villany  affects  my  own  life, 
then,  my  friend,  a  more  active  recognition  of  it  is 
necessary." 

"Indeed!  "  sneered  the  Fi'enchman. 

"Your  villany  has  touched  Paul's  life,  and  at  that 
point  it  touches  mine,"  continued  Karl  Steinmetz,  with 
Slow  anger.     "  You  followed  us  to  Petersburg — thence 


320  THE     SOWEKS 

you  dogged  us  to  the  Government  of  Tver.  You 
twisted  that  foolish  woman,  tlie  Countess  Lanovitch, 
round  your  linger,  and  obtained  from  her  an  invitation 
to  Thors.  All  this  in  order  to  be  near  one  of  us.  Acli  ! 
I  have  been  watching  you.  Is  it  only  after  twenty-five 
years  that  I  at  last  convince  you  that  I  am  not  sucli  a 
fool  as  you  are  jjleased  to  consider  me  ?" 

"  You  have  not  convinced  me  yet,"  put  in  De  Chaux- 
ville,  with  his  eas}^  laugh. 

"  No,  but  I  shall  do  so  before  I  have  finished  with 
you,  Now,  you  have  not  come  here  for  nothing.  It  is 
to  be  near  one  of  us.  It  is  not  Miss  Delafield  ;  she 
knows  you.  Some  women — good  women — have  an 
instinct  given  to  them  by  God  for  a  defence  against 
such  men — such  things  as  you.     Is  it  I  ?  " 

He  touched  his  broad  cl)est  with  his  two  hands,  and 
stood  def3'ing  his  life-long  foe. 

"Is  it  me  that  you  follow  ?  If  so,  I  am  here.  Let  us 
have  done  with  it  now." 

De  Chauxville  laughed.  Tliere  was  an  uneasy  look  in 
his  ej'-es.  He  did  not  quite  understand  Steinmetz.  He 
made  no  answer.  ]>ut  he  turned  and  looked  at  the  win- 
dow. It  is  possible  that  he  suddenly  remembered  tlie 
threat  concerning  it. 

"  Is  it  Paul  ?  "  continued  Steinmetz.  "  I  think  not.  I 
think  3^ou  are  afraid  of  Paul.  Remains  the  princess. 
Unless  you  can  convince  me  to  the  contrarj^,  I  must 
conclude  that  3'ou  are  trying  to  get  a  helpless  woman 
into  your  power." 

"You  always  were  a  champion  of  helpless  ladies," 
sneered  De  Chauxville. 

"Ah  !  You  remember  that,  do  you?  I  also — I  I'e- 
member  it.  It  is  long  ago,  and  I  have  forgiven  you  ; 
but  I  have  not  forgotten.  Wliat  you  were  then  you  will 
be  now.     Your  record  is  against  you." 

Steinmetz   was  standing   with  his  back  to  what  ap- 


A    DEUX  327 

peared  to  be  the  only  exit  from  the  room.  Tliere  were 
two  other  doors  concealed  in  the  oaken  panels,  but  De 
Chauxville  did  not  know  that.  He  couUi  not  take  liis 
eyes  from  the  broad  face  of  his  companion,  upon  whicli 
there  were  singular  blotches  of  color. 

"  I  am  waiting,"  said  the  German,  "  for  you  to  ex- 
plain your  conduct." 

"Indeed!"  replied  Dc  Chauxville.  "Then,  my 
friend,  you  will  have  to  continue  waiting.  I  fail  to 
recognize  your  right  to  make  enquiry  into  my  move- 
ments. I  am  not  responsible  to  any  man  for  my 
actions,  least  of  all  to  you.  The  man  who  manages  his 
neighbor's  affairs  mismanages  his  o\vn.  I  would  recom- 
mend you  to  mind  your  own  business.  Kindly  let  me 
pass." 

De  Chauxville's  words  were  brave  enough,  but  his 
iips  were  unsteadj^  A  weak  mouth  is  apt  to  betray  its 
possessor  at  inconvenient  moments.  He  waved  Stein- 
metz  aside,  but  he  made  no  movement  toward  the 
door.  He  kept  tlie  table  between  him  and  his  com- 
panion. 

Steinmetz  was  getting  calmer.  There  was  an  uncanny 
Iiusli  about  him. 

"  Then  I  am  to  conclude,"  he  said,  "that  you  came  to 
Russia  in  order  to  persecute  a  helpless  woman.  Her  in- 
nocence or  her  guilt  is,  for  the  moment,  beside  the 
question.  Neither  is  any  business  of  yours.  Both,  on 
the  contrary,  are  my  affair.  Innocent  or  guiltj^,  the 
Princess  Howard  Alexis  must  from  this  moment  be  freed 
from  your  persecution." 

De  Chauxville  shrugged  his  shoulders.  He  tapped 
on  the  floor  impatiently  with  the  toe  of  his  neat 
riding-boot. 

"  Aliens  !  "  he  said.     "  Let  me  pass  !  " 

"Your  story  of  Sydney  Bamborough,"  went  on  Stein- 
metz  coldly,  "  was  a  good  one  Avherewith  to  frighten  a 


328  THE     SOWERS 

panic-stricken  woman.  But  you  brought  it  to  tlie 
wrong  jDerson  when  you  brouglit  it  to  me.  Do  you  sup- 
130se  that  I  would  have  allowed  tlie  marriage  to  take 
place  unless  I  knew  that  Bamborough  was  dead  ?  " 

"  You  may  be  telling  the  truth  about  tliat  incident  or 
you  ma}^  not,"  said  De  Cliauxville.  "  But  my  knowledge 
of  the  betra^^al  of  the  Charity  League  is  sufficient  for 
my  purpose." 

"Yes,"  admitted  Steinmetz  grimly,  "  j^ou  have  infor- 
mation there  with  possibilities  of  mischief  in  it.  But  I 
shall  discount  most  of  it  by  telling  Prince  Pavlo  to- 
night all  that  I  know,  and  I  know  more  than  you  do. 
Also,  1  intend  to  seal  your  lips  before  you  leave  this 
room." 

De  Chauxville  stared  at  him  with  a  dropping  lip.  He 
gulped  down  something  in  his  throat.  Ilis  hand  was 
stealing  round  under  the  fur  jacket  to  a  pocket  at  the 
back  of  his  trousers. 

"Let  me  out  !  "  he  hissed. 

Tliere  was  a  gleam  of  bright  metal  in  the  sunlight 
that  poured  in  through  the  window.  De  Chauxville 
raised  his  arm  sharply,  and  at  the  same  instant  Stein- 
mitz  threw  a  book  in  his  face.  A  loud  i-eport,  and  the 
room  was  full  of  smoke. 

Steinmetz  placed  one  hand  on  the  table  and,  des])ite 
Ids  weight,  vaulted  it  cleanly.  This  man  had  taken  his 
degree  at  Heidelbei-g,  and  the  Germans  are  the  finest 
gymnasts  in  the  world.  Moreover,  muscle,  once  made, 
remains  till  death.  It  was  his  only  chance,  for  the 
Frenchman  had  dodged  the  novel,  but  it  spoiled  his  aim„ 
Steinmetz  vaulted  right  on  to  him,  and  De  Chauxville 
staggered  back. 

In  a  moment  Steinmetz  had  him  by  the  collar;  his 
face  was  graj%  his  heavy  (\yes  ablaze.  If  any  thing  will 
rouse  a  man,  it  is  being  fired  at  ])oint-blank  at  a  range  of 
four  yards  with  a  .280  revolver. 


A    DEUX  329 

"  Ach  !"  gasped  tlie  German  ;  "you  would  shoot  me, 
would  you  ?  " 

He  wrenched  the  pistol  from  De  Cliauxville's  lingers 
and  threw  it  into  the  corner  of  the  room.  Then  he 
shook  the  man  like  a  garment. 

"  First,"  he  cried,  "  you  would  kill  Paul,  and  now  you 
try  to  shoot  me  !  Good  God  !  what  are  you  ?  You  are 
no  man.  Do  you  know  what  I  am  going  to  do  with 
you  ?     I  am  going  to  thrash  you  like  a  dog  I " 

lie  dragged  him  to  the  fireplace.  Above  the  mantel- 
piece a  stick-rack  was  affixed  to  the  wall,  and  here  were 
sticks  and  riding-whips.  Steinmetz  selected  a  heavy 
whip.  His  eyes  were  shot  with  blood  ;  his  mouth 
worked  beneath  his  mustache. 

"  So,"  he  said,  "  I  am  going  to  settle  with  you  at 
last." 

De  Chauxville  kicked  and  struggled,  but  he  could  not 
get  free.     He  only  succeeded  in  half  choking  himself. 

"  You  are  going  to  swear,"  said  Steinmetz,  "  never  to 
approach  tlie  princess  again — never  to  divulge  what  you 
know  of  her  past  life." 

The  Frenchman  was  almost  blue  in  the  face.  His 
eyes  were  wild  with  terror. 

And  Karl  Steinmetz  thrashed  him. 

It  did  not  last  long.  No  word  was  spoken.  The 
silence  was  only  broken  by  their  shuffling  feet,  by  the 
startling  report  of  each  blow,  by  De  Cliauxville's 
repeated  gasp's  of  pain. 

The  fur  jacket  was  torn  in  several  places.  The  white 
shirt  appeared  here  and  there.  In  one  place  it  was 
stained  with  red. 

At  last  Steinmetz  threw  him  huddled  into  one  corner 
of  the  room.  The  chattering  face,  the  wild  eyes  that 
looked  up  at  him,  were  terrible  to  see. 

"  When  you  have  promised  to  keep  the  secret  you 
may  go,"  said  Steinmetz.     "  You  must  swear  it." 


330  THE     SOWERS 

De  Chfiuxville's  lips  moved,  but  no  sound  came  from 
tliem.  Steinmetz  poured  some  water  into  a  tumbler  and 
gave  it  to  him. 

"  It  had  to  come  to  this,"  he  said,  "  sooner  or  later. 
Paul  would  have  killed  you  ;  that  is  the  only  difference. 
Do  you  swear  bj^God  in  heaven  above  yon  tliatyou  will 
keep  tlie  princess's  secret  ?  " 

*'  I  swear  it,"  answered  De  Chauxville  hoarsely. 

Steinmetz  was  holding  on  to  the  back  of  a  high  chair 
with  both  hands,  breathing  heavily.  His  face  was  still 
livid.  That  which  had  been  white  in  his  eyes  was 
quite  red. 

De  Chauxville  Avas  crawling  toward  the  revolver  in 
the  corner  of  the  room,  but  he  was  almost  fainting.  It 
was  a  question  whether  lie  would  last  long  enough  to 
reach  the  fire-arm.  There  was  a  bright  patch  of  red  in 
either  liver-colored  cheek  ;  his  lips  were  working  con^ 
vulsively.  And  Steinmetz  saw  him  in  time.  He  seized 
him  by  the  collar  of  his  coat  and  dragged  him  back.  He 
placed  his  foot  on  the  little  pistol  and  faced  De  Chaux- 
ville with  glaring  eyes.  De  Chauxville  rose  to  his  feet, 
and  for  a  moment  the  two  men  looked  into  each  other's 
souls.  The  Frenchman's  face  was  twisted  with  pain. 
No  word  was  said. 

Such  was  the  last  reckoning  between  Karl  Steinmetz 
and  the  Baron  Claude  de  Chauxville. 

The  Frenchman  went  slowly  toward  the  door.  He 
faltered  and  looked  round  for  a  chair.  He  sat  heavily 
down  with  a  little  exclamation  of  pain  and  exhaustion, 
and  felt  for  his  pocket-handkei'chief.  The  scented 
cambric  diffused  a  faint,  dainty  odor  of  violets.  He  sat 
forward  with  his  two  hands  on  his  knees,  swaying  a 
little  from  side  to  side.  Pi-esently  he  raised  his  handker- 
chief to  his  face.     There  were  tears  in  his  e^-es. 

Thus  the  two  men  waited  until  De  Chauxville  had  re- 
covered himself  sufficiently  to  take  his  departure.     The 


A    DEUX  331 

air  was  full  of  naked  human  passions.  It  was  ratlicr  a 
grewsonic  scene. 

At  last  the  Frenchman  stood  slowl}^  up,  and  with 
characteristic  thought  of  appearances  fingered  his  torn 
coat. 

"Have  you  a  cloak  ?  "  asked  Steinnietz. 

"  No." 

The  German  went  to  a  cupboard  in  the  wall  and  se- 
lected a  long  riding-cloak,  which  he  handed  to  the 
Frenchman  without  a  word. 

Tiius  Claude  de  Chauxville  walked  to  the  door  in  a 
cloak  which  had  figured  at  many  a  Charity  League 
meeting.  Assuredly  the  irony  of  Fate  is  a  keener  thing 
than  any  poor  humor  we  have  at  our  command.  AV'hcn 
evil  is  punished  in  this  present  life  there  is  no  staying  of 
the  hand. 

Steinnietz  followed  De  Chauxville  throuo^h  the  lon^ 
passage  they  had  traversed  a  few  minutes  earlier  and 
down  the  broad  staircase.  The  servants  were  waiting 
at  the  door  with  the  horse  put  at  the  Frenchman's  dis- 
posal by  Paul. 

De  Chauxville  mounted  slowly,  heavil}^,  with  twitch- 
ing lips.  Ilis  face  was  set  and  cold  now.  The  pain  was 
getting  bearable,  the  wounded  vault}"  was  bleeding  in- 
wardlj''.  In  his  dull  eyes  there  was  a  gleam  of  hatred 
and  malice.  It  was  th.e  face  of  a  man  rejoicing  inwardly 
over  a  deep  and  certain  vengeance. 

"It  is  well  ! "  he  was  muttering  between  his  clenched 
teeth  as  he  rode  away,  while  Steinmetz  Avatched  him 
from  the  doorstep.  "  It  is  well  !  Now  I  will  not 
spare  you." 

He  rode  down  the  hill  and  through  the  village,  with 
the  light  of  the  setting  sun  shining  on  a  face  where  pain 
and  deadly  rage  were  fighting  for  the  mastery. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII 

A     TALE     THAT     IS     TOLD 

Kakl  Steinmetz  walked  slowly  upstairs  to  his  own 
room.  Tiie  evening  sun,  shining  through  the  small, 
deeply  embrasured  windows,  fell  on  a  face  at  no  time 
joyous,  now  tired  and  worn.  lie  sat  down  at  his  broad 
writing-table,  and  looked  round  the  room  with  a  little 
blink  of  the  eyelids. 

"  I  am  getting  too  old  for  this  sort  of  thing,"  he  said. 

His  gaze  lighted  on  the  heavy  riding-whip  thrown  on 
the  ground  near  the  door  where  he  had  released  Claude 
de  Ciiauxville,  after  the  terrible  punishment  meted  out 
to  that  foe  with  heavy  Teutonic  haiul.  Steinmetz  rose, 
and  picking  up  the  whip  with  the  grunt  of  a  stout  man 
stooping,  replaced  it  carefull^^  in  the  rack  over  the  man- 
tel-piece. 

lie  stood  looking  out  of  the  window^  for  a  few 
moments. 

"  It  will  have  to  be  done,"  he  said  resolutclj',  and  rang 
the  bell. 

"My  compliments  to  the  prince,"  he  said  to  his  serv- 
ant, who  appeared  instantl}^  "and  will  he  come  to  me 
here." 

When  Paul  came  into  the  room  a  few  minutes  later 
Steinmetz  was  standing  by  the  fire.  He  turned  and 
looked  gravely  at  the  prince. 

"I  have  just  kicked  De  Chanxville  out  of  the  house," 
he  said. 

The  color  left  Paul's  face  quite  suddenly. 

"  Why  ?  "  ])e  asked,  with  hard  eyes.     lie  had  begun  to 


A    TALE    THAT    IS    TOLD  333 

distrust  Etta,  and  there  is  notliiiig  so  hard  to  stop  as  the 
o-rowtli  of  distrust. 

Steiumetz  did  not  answer  at  once. 
"  Was  it  not  my  privilege  ?  "  asked  Paul,  with  a  grim 
smile.     Tliere  arc  some  smiles  more  terrible  than  any 
frown. 

"No,"  nnswercd  Steinmetz,  "I  think  not.  It  is  not 
as  bad  as  that.  But  it  is  bad  enough,  mein  lieber  I— it 
is  bad  enough  !  I  horsewhipped  him  first  for  myself. 
Gott  !  how  pleasant  that  was !  And  then  I  kicked  liim 
out  for  you." 

"  Why  ?  "  repeated  Paul,  with  a  white  face. 
"  It  is  a   long   story,"   answered    Steinmetz,  without 
looking  at  him.     "  He  knows  too  much." 
"  About  whom  ?  " 
"About  all  of  us." 

Paul  walked  away  to  the  window.  He  stood  looking 
out,  his  har^ds  thrust  into  the  side-pockets  of  his  jacket, 
his  broad  back  turned  uncompromisingly  upon  his  com- 
panion. 

"  Tell  me  the  story,"  he  said.  "  You  need  not  hurry 
over  it.  You  need  not  trouble  to— si)are  rae.  Only  let 
it  be  quite  complete — once  for  all." 

Steinmetz  winced.  He  knew  the  expression  of  the 
face  that  was  looking  out  of  the  window. 

"This  man  has  hated  me  all  his 'life,"  he  said.  "  It 
began  as  such  things  usually  do  between  men — abont  a 
woman.  It  was  years  ago.  I  got  the  better  of  him,  and 
the  good  God  got  the  better  of  me.  She  died,  and  De 
Chauxville  forgot  her.  I— have  not  forgotten  her.  But 
I  liave  tried  to  do  so.  It  is  a  slow  process,  and  I 
have  made  very  little  progress  ;  but  all  that  is  my 
affair  and  beside  the  question.  I  merely  mention  it 
to  show  you  that  De  Cliauxville  had  a  grudge  against 

me " 

"This  is  no  time  for  mistaken  charity,"  interrupted 


334  THE    SOWERS 

Paul.  "  Do  not  try  to  screen  any  body.  I  shall  see 
through  it." 

There  was  a  little  pause.  Never  had  that  silent  room 
been  so  noiseless. 

'•  In  after-life,"  Steinmetz  went  on,  ''  it  was  our  fate  to 
be  at  variance  several  times.  Our  mutual  dislike  has  liad 
no  opportunity  of  diminishing.  It  seems  that,  before 
yoii  married,  De  Chauxville  was  pleased  to  consider 
himself  in  love  with  Mrs.  Sydney  Bamborough. 
Whether  he  had  any  right  to  tliink  himself  ill-used,  I  do 
not  know.  Such  matters  are  usually  known  to  two  per- 
sons only,  and  imperfectly  by  them.  It  would  appear 
that  the  wound  to  liis  vanity  was  serious.  It  developed 
into  a  thirst  for  revenge.  Pie  looked  about  for  some 
means  to  do  j^ou  harm.  He  communicated  Avith  3'our 
enemies,  and  allied  himself  to  sucli  men  as  Vassili  of 
Paris.  He  followed  us  to  Petersburg,  and  then  he  had 
a  stroke  of  good  fortune.  He  found  out — who  betrayed 
the  Charity  League  !  " 

Paul  turned  slowly  round.  In  liis  ej^es  there  burned 
a  dull,  hungering  lire.  Men  have  seen  such  a  look  in  tlie 
eyes  of  a  beast  of  prey,  driven,  famished,  cornered  at 
last,  and  at  last  face  to  face  with  its  foe. 

"  Ah  !     He  knows  that  !  "  he  said  slowly. 

"Yes,  God  help  us  !  lie  knows  that." 

"And  w^ho  was  it?" 

Steinmetz  moved  uneasily  from  one  foot  to  the  other. 

"  It  was  a  woman,"  he  said. 

"  A  woman  ?  " 

"  A  woman — you  know,"  said  Steinmetz  slowly. 

"Good  God  !     Catrina?" 

"  No,  not  Catrina." 

"  Then  who?  "  cried  Paul  hoarsely.  His  hands  fell 
heavily  on  the  table. 

"  Your  wife  !  " 

Paul  knew  befoix;  the  words  were  spoken. 


A    TALE    THAT    IS    TOLD  335 

He  turned  again,  and  stood  looking  out  of  tlie  window 
M'itli  his  hands  thrust  into  his  pockets.  He  stood  tliere 
for  whole  minutes  in  an  awful  stilhiess.  The  clock  on 
the  mantel-piece,  a  little  travelling  timepiece,  ticked  in  a 
hurried  way  as  if  anxious  to  get  on.  Down  beneath 
them,  somewhere  in  the  courtyards  of  the  great  castle, 
a  dog — a  deep-voiced  wolf-hound — was  baying  persist- 
ently and  nervously,  listening  for  the  echo  of  its  own 
voice  amid  the  pines  of  the  desert  forest. 

Steinmetz  watched  Paul's  motionless  back  with  a  sort 
of  fascination.  He  moved  uneasil}^,  as  if  to  break  a 
spell  of  silence  almost  unbearable  in  its  intensity.  He 
went  to  the  table  and  sat  down.  From  mere  habit  he 
took  up  a  quill  pen.  He  looked  at  the  point  of  it  and 
at  the  inkstand.  But  he  had  notliing  to  write.  There 
was  notliing  to  say. 

He  laid  the  pen  aside,  and  sat  leaning  liis  broad  liead 
upon  the  palm  of  his  hand,  his  tw^o  elbows  on  the  table. 
Paul  never  moved.  Steinmetz  waited.  His  own  life 
had  been  no  great  success.  He  had  had  much  to  bear, 
and  he  had  borne  it.  He  was  Avondering  heavily  whether 
any  of  it  had  been  as  bad  as  wliat  Paul  was  bearing 
now  while  he  looked  out  of  tlie  window  with  his  hands 
in  his  pockets,  saying  nothing. 

At  length  Paul  moved.  He  turned,  and,  coming  to- 
ward the  table,  laid  his  hand  on  Steinmetz's  broad 
slioulder. 

"  Are  3^ou  sure  of  it?  "  he  asked,  in  a  voice  that  did 
not  sound  like  his  own  at  all — a  hollow  voice  like  that 
of  an  old  man. 

"Quite  ;  I  have  it  from  Stepan  Lanovitch — from  the 
princess  herself." 

Tliey  remained  thus  for  a  moment.  Tlien  Paul  with- 
drew his  hand  and  walked  slowl}^  to  the  window. 

"Tell  me,"  he  said,  "how  she  did  it." 

Steinmetz  was  playing  with  the  quill  pen  again.     It 


336  THE    SOWERS 

is  singular  liow  at  gre.it  moments  we  perform  trivial 
acts,  think  trivial  tliouglits.  He  dipped  tlie  pen  in  the 
ink,  and  made  a  pattern  on  tlie  blotting-pad  witli  dots. 

"  It  was  an  organized  plan  between  husband  and  wife," 
he  said.  "Bamborough  turned  up  at  Thors  and  asked 
for  a  night's  lodging,  on  the  strength  of  a  very  small 
acquaintance.  He  stole  the  papers  from  Stepan's  stud}^ 
and  took  them  to  Tver,  where  his  wife  was  waiting  for 
them.  She  took  tliein  on  to  Paris  and  sold  tliem  to 
Vassili.  Bamborough  began  his  journey  eastward, 
knov/ing  presumably  that  he  ronld  not  escape  bj'  Ihe 
western  frontier,  but  lost  his  wa}^  on  the  steppe.  You 
remember  the  man  whom  we  picked  up  between  here 
and  Tver,  with  his  face  all  cut  to  pieces  ? — he  had  been 
dragged  by  the  stirrup.  That  was  Sydney  Bamborough. 
The  good  God  had  hit  back  quickly." 

"  How  long  have  you  known  tliis?  "  asked  Paul,  in  a 
queer  voice. 

"I  saw  it  suddenly  in  the  princess's  face,  one  day  in 
Petersburg — a  sort  of  revelation.  I  read  it  there,  and 
she  saw  me  reading.  I  should  have  liked  to  keep  it 
from  you,  for  your  sake  as  well  as  for  hers.  Our  daily 
life  is  made  possible  only  by  the  fact  that  we  know  so 
little  of  our  neighbors.  There  are  many  things  of 
which  we  are  better  ignorant  right  up  to  the  end.  This 
might  have  been  one  of  them.  But  De  Ohauxville  found 
it  out,  and  it  is  better  that  I  should  tell  you  than  he." 

Paul  did  not  look  around.  The  wolf-hound  was  still 
barking  at  its  own  echo — a  favorite  pastime  of  those 
who  make  a  great  local  stir  in  the  world. 

"  Of  course,"  said  Paul,  after  a  long  pause,  "  I  have 
been  a  great  fool.     I  know  that.     But " 

He  turned  and  looked  at  Steinmetz  with  haggard 
eyes. 

"  But  I  would  rather  go  on  being  a  fool  than  suspect 
any  one  of  a  deception  like  this." 


A    TALE    THAT    IS    TOLD  337 

Steiiinietz  was  still  making  patterns  on  the  blotting- 
pad. 

"  It  is  difficult  for  us  men,"  he  said  slowly,  "  to  look 
at  these  things  from  a  woman's  point  of  view.  Tliey 
hold  a  different  sense  of  honor  from  ours — especially 
if  they  are  beautiful.  And  the  fault  is  ours — especially; 
toward  the  beautiful  ones.  There  may  have  been 
temptations  of  whicli  we  are  ignorant." 

Paul  was  still  looking  at  him.  Stein metz  looked  up 
slowly,  and  saw  that  he  had  grown  ten  years  older  in 
the  last  few  minutes.  He  did  not  look  at  him  for  more 
than  a  second,  because  the  sight  of  Paul's  face  hurt  him. 
But  he  saw  in  that  moment  that  Paul  did  not  under- 
stand. This  strong  man,  hard  in  his  youthful  strength 
of  limb  and  purpose,  would  be  just,  but  nothing  more. 
And  between  man  and  man  it  is  not  always  justice  that 
is  required.  Between  man  and  woman  justice  rarely 
meets  the  difficulty. 

"  Comprendre  c'est  pardonner,"  quoted  Steinmetz 
vaguel}^ 

He  hesitated  to  interfere  between  Paul  and  his  wife. 
Axioms  are  made  for  crucial  moments.  A  man's  life 
has  been  steered  by  a  proverb  before  this.  Some,  who 
have  no  religion,  steer  by  them  all  the  voj^age. 

Paul  walked  slowly  to  the  chair  he  usually  occu- 
pied, opposite  to  Steinmetz,  at  the  writing-table.  He 
walked  and  sat  down  as  if  he  had  travelled  a  long 
distance. 

"  What  is  to  be  done  ?  "  asked  Steinmetz. 

"  I  do  not  know.  I  do  not  think  that  it  matters  much. 
What  do  you  recommend  ?  " 

"  There  is  so  much  to  be  done,"  answered  Steinmetz, 
"  that  it  is  difficult  to  know  what  to  do  first.  We  must 
not  forget  that  De  Chauxville  is  furious.  He  will  do  all 
th6  harm  of  which  he  is  capable  at  once.  We  must  not 
forget  that  the  country  is    in    a   state   of   smoldering 


338  THE     SOWERS 

revolt,  and  that  we  have  two  women,  two  English  ladies, 
entrusted  to  our  care." 

Paul  moved  uneasil}^  in  his  chair.  His  companion 
had  struck  the  right  note.  This  large  man  was  happiest 
when  he  was  tiring  himself  out. 

"Yes  ;  but  about  Etta?"  he  said. 

And  the  sound  of  his  voice  made  Steinmetz  wince. 
There  is  nothing  so  heartrending  as  the  sight  of  dumb 
suffering. 

"  You  must  see  her,"  answered  he  reflectively.  "  You 
must  see  her,  of  course.     She  may  be  able  to  explain." 

He  looked  across  the  table  beneath  his  shaggy  gray 
eyebrows.  Paul  did  not  at  that  moment  look  a  likely 
subject  for  explanations — even  the  explanations  of  a 
beautiful  woman.  But  there  was  one  human  quantity 
which  in  all  his  experience  Karl  Steinmetz  had  never 
successfully  gauged — namel}^  the  extent  of  a  woman's 
power  over  the  man  who  loves,  or  at  one  time  has 
loved  her. 

"  She  cannot  explain  away  Stepan  Lanovitch's  ruined 
life.  She  can  hardly  explain  away  a  thousand  deaths 
from  unnatural  causes  every  winter,  in  this  province 
alone." 

Tliis  was  what  Steinmetz  dreaded — justice. 

*' Give  her  the  opportunit}',"  he  said. 

Paul  was  looking  out  of  the  window.  His  singularly 
firm  mouth  was  still  and  quiet — not  a  mouth  for  expla- 
nations. 

"  I  will,  if  3'OU  like,"  he  said. 

"  I  do  like,  Paul.  I  beg  of  you  to  do  it.  And  remem- 
ber tliat — she  is  not  a  man." 

This,  like  other  appeals  of  the  same  nature,  fell  on 
stony  ground.  Paul  simply  did  not  understand  it.  In 
all  tlie  3^ears  of  his  work  among  tlie  peasants  it  is  possible 
that  some  well-S})ring  of  conventional  charit}"  had  been 
dried   up — scorched    in    the  glare  of  burning  injustice. 


A   TALE    THAT    IS    TOLD  339 

He  was  not  at  tliis  moment  in  a  mood  to  consider  the 
onl}'-  excuse  that  Stein metz  seemed  to  be  able  to  urge. 

The  sun  had  set  long  ago.  The  short  twilight  lay 
over  the  snow-covered  land  with  a  chill  hopelessness. 
Steinmetz  looked  at  his  watch.  They  had  been  together 
an  hour — one  of  those  hours  that  count  as  years  in  a  life-, 
time.  He  had  to  peer  into  the  face  of  the  watch  in 
order  to  see  the  hands.  The  room  was  almost  dark,  and 
no  servant  ever  came  to  it,  unless  summoned. 

Paul  was  looking  down  at  his  companion,  as  if  waiting 
to  hear  the  time.  At  great  moments  we  are  suddenly 
brought  face  to  face  with  the  limits  of  human  nature. 
It  is  at  such  moments  that  we  find  that  we  are  not  gods, 
but  only  men.  We  can  only  feel  to  a  certain  extent, 
only  suffer  up  to  a  certain  point. 

"  We  must  dress  for  dinner,"  said  Steinmetz.  "After- 
ward— well,  afterward  we  shall  see." 

"  Yes,"  answered  Paul.     And  he  did  not  go. 

The  two  men  stood  looking  at  each  other  for  a  mo- 
ment. They  had  passed  through  much  together — 
danger,  excitement,  and  now  they  were  dabbling  in  sor- 
row. It  would  appear  that  this  same  sorrow  runs  like  a 
river  across  the  road  of  our  life.  Some  of  us  find  the 
ford  and  plash  through  the  shallows — shallow  our- 
selves— while  otliers  flounder  into  deep  water.  These 
are  they  who  look  right  on  to  the  greater  events,  and 
fail  to  note  the  trivial  details  of  each  little  step.  Paul 
was  wading  through  the  deep  water,  and  this  good 
friend  of  his  was  not  inclined  to  stand  upon  the  bank. 
It  is  while  passing  through  this  river  that  Fortune  sends 
some  of  us  a  friend,  who  is  ever  afterward  different 
from  all  others. 

Paul  stood  looking  down  at  the  broad,  heavy  face  of 
the  man  who  loved  him  like  a  father.  It  was  not  easy 
for  him  to  speak.     He  seemed  to  be  making  an  effort. 

"  I  do  not  want  you  to  think,"  he  said  at  last,  "  that 


340  THE     SOWERS 

it  is  as  bad  as  it  .night  have  been.  It  might  have  been 
worse — much  w^orse — had  I  not  made  a  mistake  in 
regard  to  my  own  feelings  when  I  married  her.  I  wall 
try  and  do  the  right  thing  by  her.  Only  at  present 
there  does  not  seem  to  be  much  left,  except  you." 

Steinmetz  looked  up  with  his  quaintly  resigned  smile. 

"  Ah,  yes,"  he  said,  "  I  am  there  always." 


CHAPTER  XXXIX 

HUSBAND     AXD     WIFE 

Karl  Steinmetz  bad  shown  the  depth  of  his  knowI= 
edge  of  men  and  women  when  he  commented  on  that 
power  of  facing  danger  with  an  unruffled  countenance 
which  he  was  pleased  to  attribute  to  English  ladies 
above  all  women.  Daring  the  evening  he  had  full 
opportunity  of  verifying  his  own  observations. 

Etta  came  down  to  dinner  smiling  and  imperturbable. 
On  the  threshold  of  the  drawing-room  she  exchanged 
a  glance  with  Karl  Steinmetz  ;  and  that  was  all.  At 
dinner  it  was  Maggie  and  Paul  who  were  silent.  Etta 
talked  to  Steinmetz — brightly,  gayly,  w^tli  a  certain 
courage  of  a  very  higli  order  ;  for  she  was  desperate, 
and  she  did  not  show  it. 

At  last  the  evening  came  to  an  end.  Maggie  had 
sung  two  songs.  Steinmetz  had  performed  on  the  piano 
with  a  marvellous  touch.  All  had  plaj^ed  their  parts 
Avith  the  brazen  faces  which  Steinmetz,  in  his  knowlcdi^e 
of  many  nations,  assigned  to  the  Anglo-Saxon  race 
before  others. 

At  last  Etta  rose  to  go  to  bed,  with  a  little  sharp  sigh 
of  great  suspense.     It  was  coming. 

Slie  went  up  to  her  room,  bidding  Maggie  good-night 
in  the  passage.  In  a  mechanical  way  she  allowed  the 
deft-handed  maid  to  array  her  in  a  dressing  gown — soft, 
silken,  a  dainty  triumph  in  its  waj\  Then,  almost 
impatiently,  she  sent  the  maid  away  when  her  hair  wr.s 
only  half  released.  She  would  brush  it  herself.  She 
was  tired.     No,  she  wanted  nothing  more. 


342  THE     so  WEES 

Slie  sat  down  by  the  fire,  brush  in  hand.  She  could 
hardly  breathe.     It  was  coming. 

She  heard  Paul  come  to  his  dressing-room.  She  heard 
his  deep,  quiet  voice  reply  to  some  question  of  his  valet's. 
Then  the  word  "  Good-night  "  in  the  same  quiet  voice. 
The  valet  had  gone.  There  was  only  the  door  now 
between  her  and — what  ?  Her  fingers  were  at  the 
throat  of  her  dressing-gown.  The  soft  lace  seemed  to 
choke  her. 

Then  Paul  knocked  at  the  door.  It  Avas  coming. 
She  opened  her  lips,  but  at  first  could  make  no  sound. 

*'  Come  in  !  "  she  said  at  length  hoarsely. 

She  wondered  whether  he  would  kill  her.  She 
wondered  whether  she  was  in  love  with  her  husband. 
She  had  begun  wondering  that  latelj^;  she  was  wonder- 
ing it  when  he  came  in.  He  had  changed  his  dress-coat 
for  a  silk-faced  jacket,  in  which  he  was  in  the  habit  of 
working  with  Steinmetz  in  the  quiet  room  after  the 
household  had  gone  to  bed. 

She  looked  up.  She  dropped  the  brush,  and  ran 
toward  him  with  a  great  rustle  of  her  flowing  silks. 

*'  Oh,  Paul,  what  is  it  ?  "  she  cried. 

She  stopped  short,  not  daring  to  touch  him,  before 
his  cold,  set  face. 

''  Have  you  seen  any  one  ?  "  she  whispered. 

"Only  De  Chauxville,"  he  answered,  *Uhis  after- 
noon." 

"Indeed,  Paul,"  she  protested  hastily,  "it  was  noth- 
ing. A  message  from  Catrina  Lanovitch.  It  was  only 
the  usual  visit  of  an  acquaintance.  It  would  have  been 
very  strange  if  he  had  not  called.  Do  you  think  I  could 
care  for  a  man  like  that  ?  " 

"  I  never  did  think  so  until  now,"  returned  Paul 
steadily.  "  Your  excuses  accuse  you.  You  may  care 
for  him.     I  do  not  know  ;  I — do — not — care." 

She   turned    slowly    and    went    back   to   her   chair. 


HUSBAND    AND    WIFE  343 

Meclianicall}^  slie  took  up  tlie  bnisli,  and  sliook  back 
lier  beautiful  liair. 

"  You  mean  j^ou  do  not  care  for  me,"  slic  said.  "  Oli, 
Paul  !  be  careful." 

Paul  stood  looking  at  lier.  He  was  not  a  subtle- 
minded  man  at  all.  He  was  not  one  of  tbose  who  take 
it  upon  themselves  to  say  that  they  understand  women 
— using  the  word  in  an  offensively  general  sense,  as  if 
women  were  situated  midway  between  the  human  and 
the  animal  races.  He  was  old-fashioned  enough  to  look 
upon  women  as  higher  and  purer  than  men,  while 
equally  capable  of  tliought  and  self-control.  He  had,  it 
must  be  remembered,  no  great  taste  for  fictional  litera- 
ture. He  had  not  read  the  voluminous  lucubrations  of 
the  modern  woman  writer.  He  had  not  assisted  at  the 
nauseating  spectacle  of  a  woman  morally  turning  herself 
inside  out  in  three  volumes  and  an  interview. 

No,  this  man  respected  women  still  ;  and  he  jDaid 
them  an  honor  which,  thank  Heaven,  most  of  them  still 
deserve.  He  treated  them  as  men  in  the  sense  that  he 
considered  them  to  be  under  the  same  code  of  right  and 
wrong,  of  good  and  evil. 

He  did  not  understand  what  Etta  meant  when  she 
told  him  to  be  careful.  He  did  not  know  that  the  mod- 
ern social  code  is  like  the  Spanish  grammar — tliere  are 
so  many  exceptions  that  the  rules  are  hardly  worth  not- 
ing. And  one  of  our  most  notorious  modern  exceptions 
is  the  married  woman  who  is  pleased  to  hold  herself 
excused  because  outsiders  tell  her  that  her  husband  does 
not  understand  her. 

"I  do  not  think,"  said  Paul  judicially,  "  that  jow  can 
have  cared  very  much  whether  I  loved  you  or  not. 
Wlien  you  married  me  you  knew  that  1  was  the  pro- 
moter of  tlie  Charity  League  ;  I  almost  told  you.  I 
told  3"ou  so  much  that,  with  your  knowledge,  j^ou  must 
have  been  aware  of  the  fact  that  I  was  heavily  inter- 


344  THE     SOWERS 

ested  in  the  undertaking  which  jon  betraj^ed.  You 
married  me  without  certain  proof  of  your  liusband's 
death,  such  was  your  indecent  haste  to  call  yourself  a 
princess.  And  now  I  find,  on  your  own  confession,  that 
you  have  a  clandestine  understanding  with  a  man  who 
tried  to  murder  me  only  a  week  ago.  Is  it  not  rather 
absurd  to  talk  of  caring  ?  " 

He  stood  looking  down  at  her,  cold  and  terrible  in  the 
white  heat  of  his  suppressed  Northern  anger. 

The  little  clock  on  the  mantel-piece,  in  a  terrible 
hurry,  ticked  with  all  its  might.  Time  was  speeding. 
Every  moment  was  against  her.  And  she  could  think 
of  nothing  to  say,  simply  because  those  things  that  she 
would  have  said  to  others  would  carry  no  weight  with 
this  man. 

Etta  was  leaning  forward  in  the  luxurious  chair,  star- 
ing with  haggard  eyes  into  the  fire.  The  flames  leaped 
up  and  gleamed  on  her  pale  face,  in  her  deep  eyes. 

"  I  suppose,"  she  said,  without  looking  at  him,  "  that 
you  ^\\\\  not  believe  me  when  I  tell  you  that  I  hate  the 
man.  I  knew  nothing  of  what  you  refer  to  as  happen- 
ing last  week  ;  his  attempt  to  murder  3'ou,  I  mean.  You 
are  a  prince,  and  all-powerful  in  your  own  province. 
Can  you  not  throw  him  into  prison  and  keep  him  there  ? 
Such  thinfys  are  done  in  Russia.  He  is  more  dans^erous 
than  you  think.     Please  do  it — please " 

Paul  looked  at  her  with  hard,  unresponsive  eyes. 
Lives  depended  on  his  answer. 

"  I  did  not  come  here  to  discuss  Claude  de  Chaux= 
ville,"  he  said,  "but  j^ou,  and  our  future." 

Etta  drew  herself  up  as  one  under  the  lash,  and 
waited  with  set  teeth. 

"I  propose,"  he  said,  in  a  final  voice  which  made  it  no 
proposition  at  all,  "  that  j^ou  go  home  to  England  at 
once  with — your  cousin.  This  country  is  not  safe  for 
you.     The  house  in  London  will  be  at  your  disposal.     I 


HUSBAND    AND    WIFE  345 

will  make  a  suitable  settlement  on  you,  sufficient  to  live 
in  accordance  with  your  title  and  position.  I  must  ask 
you  to  remember  that  the  name  you  bear  has  hitherto 
been  an  unsullied  one.  We  liave  been  proud  of  our 
princesses — up  to  now.  In  case  of  any  trouble  reaching 
you  from  outside  sources  connected  with  this  country,  I 
should  like  you  to  remember  that  you  are  under  my  pro- 
tection and  that  of  Steinmetz.  Either  of  us  will  be 
glad  at  an}^  time  to  consider  any  appeal  for  assistance 
that  you  may  think  fit  to  make.  You  will  always  be  the 
Princess  Howard  Alexis." 

Etta  gave  a  sudden  laugh. 

"Oil,  yes,"  she  said,  and  her  face  was  strangely  red, 
"  I  shall  still  be  the  Princess  Alexis." 

"  With  sufficient  money  to  keep  up  the  position,"  he 
went  on,  with  the  cruel  irony  of  a  slow-spoken  man 

A  queer,  twisted  smile  passed  across  Etta's  face — the 
smile  of  one  who  is  in  agony  and  will  not  shriek. 

"  There  are  certain  stipulations  which  I  must  make  in 
self-defence,"  w^ent  on  Paul.  "I  must  ask  you  to  cease 
all  communication  of  whatever  nature  with  the  Baron  de 
Chauxville.  I  am  not  jealous  of  him — now.  I  do  not 
know  why." 

He  paused,  as  if  wondering  w^hat  the  meaning  of  this 
might  be.  Etta  knew  it.  The  knowledge  was  part  of 
her  punishment. 

"  But,"  continued  her  husband.  "  I  am  not  going  to 
sacrifice  the  name  my  mother  bore  to  the  vanit}^  of  a 
French  coxcomb.  You  will  be  kind  enough  to  avoid  all 
society  where  it  is  likely  that  you  should  meet  him.  If 
you  disregard  my  desires  in  this  matter,  I  shall  be  com- 
pelled to  take  means  to  enforce  them," 

"  What  means  ?  " 

"  I  shall  reduce  jonv  allowance." 

Their  eyes  met,  and  perhnps  that  was  the  bitterest 
moment  in  Etta's  life.     Dead  things  are  better  put  out 


346  THE     SOWERS 

of  siglit  at  once.  Etta  felt  that  Paul's  dead  love  would 
grin  at  her  in  every  sovereign  of  the  allowance  wliicli 
was  to  be  hers.  She  would  never  get  away  from  it ;  she 
could  never  shake  off  its  memory. 

"Am  I  to  live  alone?"  asked  Etta,  suddenly  finding 
her  voice. 

"Tliat  is  as  you  like,"  answered  Paul,  perhaps  pur- 
posely misunderstanding  her.  "You  are  at  liberty  to 
liave  any  friend  or  companion  you  wish.  Perhaps — 
your  cousin." 

"Maggie?" 

"  Yes,"  answered  Paul.  For  the  first  time  since  he  had 
entered  the  room  his  eyes  were  averted  from  Etta's  face. 

"  She  would  not  live  with  me,"  said  the  princess 
curtly. 

Paul  seemed  to  be  reflecting.  When  he  next  spoke  it 
was  in  a  kinder  voice. 

"You  need  not  tell  the  circumstances  Avhich  have 
given  rise  to  this  arrangement." 

Etta  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"That,"  went  on  Paul,  "  rests  entirely  with  yourself. 
You  may  be  sure  that  I  will  tell  no  one.  I  am  not  likely 
to  discuss  it  with  any  one  whomsoever." 

Etta's  stony  eyes  softened  for  a  moment.  She  seemed 
to  be  alternating  between  hatred  of  this  man  and  love 
of  hira — a  dangerous  state  for  any  woman.  It  is  pos- 
sible that,  if  he  had  held  his  hand  out  to  her,  she  would 
have  been  at  his  feet  in  a  wild,  incoherent  passion  of  self- 
hatred  and  abasement.  Such  moments  as  these  turn  our 
lives  and  determine  them.  Paul  knew  nothing  of  the 
issue  hanging  on  this  moment,  on  the  passing  softness  of 
her  e^^es.  He  knew  nothing  of  the  danger  in  which  this 
woman  stood,  of  the  temptation  with  which  she  was 
wrestling.  He  went  on  in  his  blindness,  went  on  being 
only  just. 

"  If,"  he  said,  "  you  have  any  further  questions  to  ask, 


IIUSBAXD    AND    WIFE  347 

I  shall  alwa3^s  be  at  .your  service.  For  the  next  few 
days  I  shall  be  busy.  The  peasants  are  in  a  state  of  dis- 
content verging  on  rebellion.  We  cannot  at  present 
arrange  for  your  journey  to  Tver,  but  as  soon  as  it  is 
possible  I  will  tell  you." 

lie  looked  at  the  clock,  and  made  an  imperceptible 
movement  toward  the  door. 

Etta  glanced  up  sharply.  She  did  not  seem  to  be 
breathing. 

"  Is  that  all  ?  "  she  asked,  in  a  dull  voice. 

There  was  a  long  silence,  tense  and  throbbing,  the 
great  silence  of  the  steppe. 

"  I  think  so,"  answered  Paul  at  length.  ''  I  have  tried 
to  be  just." 

"  Tiien  justice  is  very  cruel." 

"Not  so  cruel  as  the  woman  who  for  a  few  pounds 
sells  the  happiness  of  thousands  of  human  beings. 
Steinmetz  advised  me  to  speak  to  you.  He  suggested 
the  possibility  of  circumstances  of  "which  ^ve  are 
ignorant.     He  said  that  you  might  be  able  to  explain." 

Silence. 

"  Can  you  explain  ?  " 

Silence.  Etta  sat  looking  into  the  fire.  The  little 
clock  hurried  on.     At  lengtli  Etta  drew  a  deep  breath. 

"You  are  the  sort  of  man,"  she  said,  "who  does  not 
understand  temptation.  You  are  strong.  The  devil 
leaves  the  strong  in  peace.  You  have  found  virtue  easy 
because  joii  have  never  wanted  money.  Your  position 
has  always  been  assured.  Your  name  alone  is  a  pass- 
word through  the  world.  Your  sort  are  always  hard  on 
women  who — who What  have  I  done,  after  all  ?" 

Some  instinct  bade  her  rise  to  her  feet  and  stand 
before  him — tall,  beautiful,  passionate,  a  woman  in  a 
thousand,  a  fit  mate  for  such  as  he.  Her  beautiful  hair 
in  burnished  glory  round  her  face  gleamed  in  the  fire- 
light.     Her  white  fingers  clenched,   her  arms  thrown 


348  THE     SOWEES 

back,  her  breast  panting  beneatli  the  lace,  lier  prond 
face  looking  defiance  into  his — no  one  but  a  prince  could 
have  braved  this  princess. 

"  Wliat  have  I  done  ?  "  she  cried  a  second  time.  "I 
have  only  fought  for  myself,  and  if  I  have  won,  so  much 
the  greater  c\edit.  I  am  your  wife.  I  have  done  noth- 
ing the  law  can  touch.  Thousands  of  women  moving  in 
our  circle  are  not  half  so  good  as  I  am.  I  swear  before 
God  I  am " 

"Hush!"  he  said,  Avitli  upraised  hand.  "I  never 
doubted  that." 

"  I  will  do  any  thing  you  wish,"  she  went  on,  and  in 
her  humility  she  was  very  dangerous.  "  I  deceived  you, 
I  know.  But  I  sold  the  Charity  League  before  I  knew 
that  you — that  you  thought  of  me.  When  I  married 
you  I  didn't  love  you.  I  admit  that.  But  Paul — oli, 
Paul,  if  3^ou  were  not  so  good  you  would  understand." 

Perliaps  he  did  understand  ;  for  there  was  that  in  her 
eyes  that  made  her  meaning  clear. 

He  was  silent  ;  standing  before  her  in  his  great 
strength,  his  marvellous  and  cruel  self-restraint. 

"  You  will  not  forgive  me  ?  " 

For  a  moment  she  leaned  forward,  peering  into  his 
face.     He  seemed  to  be  reflecting. 

"Yes,"  he  said  at  length,  "I  forgive  you.  But  if  I 
cared  for  you,  forgiveness  would  be  impossible." 

He  went  slowly  toward  the  door.  Etta  looked  round 
the  room  witli  drawn  eyes  ;  their  room — the  room  he 
had  fitted  up  for  his  bride  with  the  lavishness  of  a  great 
wealth  and  a  great  love. 

He  paused,  with  his  hand  on  the  door. 

"And,"  she  said,  Avith  fiery  cheeks,  "does  your  for- 
giveness date  from  to-night  ?  " 

"  Yes  !  " 

He  opened  the  door. 

"  Good-night !  "  he  said,  and  went  out. 


CHAPTER  XL 

STEPAN    KETUENS 

At  daybreak  the  next  morning  Karl  Steinmetz  was 
awakened  by  the  familiar  cry  of  the  wolf  beneath  his 
window.  He  rose  and  dressed  hastily.  The  eastern  sky 
was  faintly  pink  ;  a  rosy  twilight  moved  among  the 
pines.  He  went  down  stairs  and  opened  the  little  door 
at  the  back  of  the  castle. 

It  was,  of  course,  the  starosta,  shivering  and  bleached 
in  the  chilly  dawn. 

''They  have  watched  my  cottage.  Excellency,  all 
night.  It  was  only  now  that  I  could  get  awa}-.  There 
are  two  strange  sleighs  outside  Domensky's  hut.  There 
are  marks  of  many  sleighs  that  have  been  and  gone. 
Excellency,  it  is  unsafe  for  any  one  to  venture  outside 
the  castle  to-day.  You  must  send  to  Tver  for  the 
soldiers." 

"  The  prince  refuses  to  do  that." 

*'  But  why.  Excellency  ?     We  shall  be  killed  !  " 

"  You  do  not  know  the  effect  of  platoon  firing  on  a 
closely  packed  mob,  starost.  1'he  prince  does,"  replied 
Steinmetz,  with  his  grim  smile. 

They  spoke  together  in  hushed  voices  for  half  an  hour, 
while  the  daylight  crept  up  the  eastern  sky.  Then  the 
starosta  stole  away  among  the  still  larches,  like  the 
wolf  whose  cry  he  imitated  so  perfectly. 

Steinmetz  closed  the  door  and  went  upstairs  to  liis 
own  room,  his  face  grave  and  thoughtful,  his  tread 
heavy  with  the  weight  of  anxiety. 

The  day  passed  as  such  days  do.     Etta  w\as  not  the 


350  THE     SOWEES 

woman  to  plead  a  conventional  headache  and  remain 
hidden.  She  came  down  to  breakfast,  and  during  that 
meal  was  boldly  conversational. 

"  She  has  spirit,"  reflected  Karl  Steinmetz  behind  his 
quiet  gray  eyes.  He  admired  her  for  it,  and  helped  her. 
He  threw  back  the  ball  of  conversation  with  imperturb- 
able good  humor. 

They  were  completely  shut  in.  No  news  from  the 
outer  world  penetrated  to  the  little  party  besieged 
within  their  own  stone  walls.  Maggie,  fearless  and 
innocent,  announced  her  intention  of  snow-shoeing,  but 
was  dissuaded  therefrom  by  Steinmetz  with  covert 
warnings. 

During  the  morning  each  was  occupied  in  individual 
affairs.  At  luncheon  time  they  met  again.  Etta  was 
now  almost  defiant.  She  was  on  her  mettle.  Slie  was 
so  near  to  loving  Paul  that  a  hatred  of  liini  welled  up 
within  her  breast  whenever  he  rejjelled  her  advances 
with  uncompromising  reticence. 

They  did  not  know — perhaps  she  hardly  knew  her- 
self— that  the  opening  of  the  side-door  depended  upon 
her  humor. 

In  the  afternoon  Etta  and  Maggie  sat,  as  was  their 
wont,  in  the  rnorning-room  looking  out  over  the  cliff. 
Of  late  their  intercourse  had  been  slighth^  strained. 
They  had  never  had  much  in  common,  although  circum- 
stances had  thrown  their  lives  together.  It  is  one  of 
the  ills  to  which  women  are  heir  tliat  they  have  fre- 
quently to  pass  their  whole  lives  in  the  societ}^  of  per- 
sons with  whom  they  have  no  real  sympathy.  Both 
these  women  were  conscious  of  the  little  rift  within 
the  lute,  but  such  rifts  are  better  treated  with  silence. 
That  which  comes  to  interfere  with  a  woman's  friend- 
ship will  not  often  bear  discussion. 

At  dusk  Steinmetz  went  out.  He  had  an  appoint- 
ment with  the  starosta. 


STtPAN    RETURNS  351 

Paul  Avas  sitting  in  liis  own  room,  making  a  pretence 
of  work,  about  live  o'clock,  wlien  Steinmetz  came 
hurriedly  to  him. 

"A  new  development,"  he  said  shortly.  "Come 
to  my  room." 

Paul  rose  and  followed  him  through  the  double  door- 
way built  in  the  thickness  of  the  wall. 

Steinmetz's  large  room  was  lighted  only  by  a  lamp 
standing  on  the  table.  All  the  light  was  thrown  on  the 
desk  by  a  large  green  shade,  leaving  the  rest  of  the 
room  in  a  semi-darkness. 

At  the  far  end  of  the  room  a  man  Avas  standing  in  an 
expectant  attitude.  There  was  something  furtive  about 
this  intruder,  and  at  the  same  time  familiar  to  Paul, 
who  peered  at  him  through  the  gloom. 

Then  the  man  came  hurriedly  forward. 

"  Ah,  Pavlo,  Pavlo  !  "  he  said  in  a  deep,  hollow  voice. 
"  I  could  not  expect  you  to  know  me." 

He  threw  his  arms  around  him,  and  embraced  him 
after  the  simple  manner  of  Russia.  Then  he  held  him 
at  arm's  length. 

"  Stepan  !  "  said  Paul.     "  No,  I  did  not  know  you." 

Stepan  Lanovitch  was  still  holding  him  at  arm's 
length,  examining  him  with  the  large  faint  blue  eyes 
which  so  often  go  with  an  exaggerated  philanthropy. 

"  Old,"  he  muttered,  "  old  !  Ah,  my  poor  Pavlo  !  I 
heard  in  Kiew — you  know  how  we  outlaws  hear  such 
thijigs— that  you  were  in  trouble,  so  I  came  to  you." 

Steinmetz  in  the  background  raised  his  patient  eye- 
brows. 

"There  are  two  men  in  the  world,"  went  on  the 
voluble  Lanovitch,  "who  can  manage  the  moujiks  of 
Tver— you  and  I  ;  so  I  came.  I  will  help  you,  Pavlo  ; 
I  will  stand  by  you.  Together  we  can  assuredly  quell 
this  revolt." 

Paul  nodded,  and  allowed  himself  to  be  embraced  a 


352  THE     SOAVERS 

second  time.  He  had  long  known  Stepan  Lanovitcli  of 
Tliors  as  one  of  tlie  many  who  go  about  the  world 
doing  good  with  their  ej^es  shut.  For  tlie  moment  he 
had  absolutely  no  use  for  this  well-meaning  blunderer. 

"I  am  afraid,"  he  said,  "  that  it  has  got  bej'Ond  con- 
trol. We  cannot  stamp  it  out  now  except  bj^  force, 
and  I  would  rather  not  do  that.  Our  only  hope  is  that 
it  may  burn  itself  out.  The  talkers  must  get  hoarse  in 
time." 

Lanovitch  shook  his  head. 

"They  have  been  talking  since  the  days  of  Ananias," 
he  said,  "  and  they  are  not  hoarse  yet.  I  fear,  Pavlo, 
there  will  never  be  peace  in  the  world  until  the  talkers 
are  lioarse." 

''How  did  you  get  here?"  asked  Paul,  who  was 
always  businesslike. 

"  I  brought  a  pack  on  my  back  and  sold  cotton.  I 
made  myself  known  to  tlie  starosta,  and  he  com- 
municated   with    good    Karl   here." 

'"  Did  you  learn  any  thing  in  the  village  ? "  asked 
Paul. 

"  No  ;  they  suspected  me.  They  would  not  talk. 
But  I  understand  them,  Pavlo,  these  poor  simple  fools. 
A  pebble  in  the  stream  would  turn  the  current  of  their 
convictions.  Tell  them  who  is  the  Moscow  doctor.  It 
is  your  only  chance." 

Steimnetz  grunted  acquiescence  and  walked  wearily 
to  the  window.  This  was  onl}^  an  old  and  futile  argu- 
ment of  his  own. 

"  And  make  it  impossible  for  me  to  live  another  day 
among  them,"  said  Paul.  "Do  you  think  St.  Peters- 
burg would  countenance  a  prince  who  works  among  his 
moujiks?" 

Stepan  Lanovitch's  pale  blue  eyes  looked  troubled. 
Steinmetz  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  They  have  brought  it  on  themselves,"  he  said. 


STEP  AN    RETURNS  353 

"As  much  as  a  Iamb  brings  the  knife  upon  itself  by 
growing  up,"  replied  Paul. 

Lanovitch  sliook  bis  white  head  with  a  tolerant  little 
smile.  He  loved  these  poor  helpless  peasants  with  a 
love  as  large  as  and  a  thousand  times  less  practical  than 
Paul's. 

In  the  meantime  Paul  was  thinking  in  his  clear, 
direct  way.  It  was  this  man's  habit  in  life  and  in 
thought  to  walk  straight  past  the  side  issues. 

"  It  is  like  you,  Stepan,"  he  said  at  length,  "to  come 
to  us  at  this  time.  We  feel  it,  and  we  recognize  the 
generosity  of  it,  for  Steinmetz  and  I  know  the  danger 
you  are  running  in  coming  back  to  this  country.     But 

we  cannot  let  you  do  it ISTo,  do  not  protest.     It  is 

quite  out  of  the  question.  We  might  quell  the  revolt ; 
no  doubt  we  should — the  two  of  us  together.  But  v/hat 
would  happen  afterward  ?  You  would  be  sent  back  to 
Siberia,  and  I  should  probably  follow  .you  for  harboring 
an  escaped  convict." 

The  face  of  the  impulsive  philanthropist  dropped 
pathetically.  He  had  come  to  his  friend's  assistance 
on  the  spur  of  the  moment.  He  was  destined,  as  some 
men  are,  to  plunge  about  the  world  seeking  to  do  good. 
And  it  has  been  decreed  that  good  must  be  done  by 
stealth  and  after  deliberation  only.  He  who  does  good 
on  the  spur  of  the  moment  usually  sows  a  seed  of  dis- 
sension in  the  trench  of  time. 

"Also,"  went  on  Paul,  with  that  deliberate  grasp  of 
the  situation  which  never  failed  to  astonish  the  ready- 
witted  Steinmetz  ;  "  also,  you  have  other  calls  upon 
3^our  energy.     You  have  other  work  to  do." 

Lanovitch's  broad  face  lightened  up  ;  his  benevolent 
brow  beamed.  His  capacity  for  work  had  brought  liim 
to  the  shoemaker's  last  in  Tomsk.  It  is  a  vice  that 
grows  with  indulgence. 

"  It  has  pleased  the  Authorities,"  went  on  Paul,  who 
23 


354  THE     SOWEES 

was  shy  of  religious  turns  of  phrase,  "  to  give  us  all  our 
own  troubles.  Mine — such  as  they  are,  Stepan — must 
be  managed  by  myself.  Yours  can  be  faced  by  no  one 
but  you.  You  have  come  at  the  right  moment.  You 
do  not  quite  realize  what  your  coming  means  tc 
Catrina." 

"Catrina  !     Ah  !" 

Tlie  weak  blue  eyes  looked  into  the  strong  face  and 
read  nothing  there. 

"I  doubt,"  said  Paul,  "  whether  it  is  right  for  you  to 
continue  sacrificing  Catrina  for  the  sake  of  the  little 
good  that  you  are  able  to  do.  You  are  hampered  in 
your  good  work  to  such  an  extent  that  the  result  is 
very  small,  while  the  pain  you  give  is  very  groat." 

"  But  is  that  so,  Pavlo  ?     Is  my  child  unhappy  ?  " 

"  I  fear  so,"  replied  Paul  gravel}^,  with  his  baffling 
self-restraint.  "  She  has  not  much  in  common  with  her 
mother,  you  understand." 

"  Ah,  yes  !  " 

*'  It  is  you  to  whom  she  is  attached.  Sometimes  it  is 
so  with  children  and  parents.     One  cannot  tell  why." 

Steinmetz  looked  as  if  he  could  supply  information 
upon  the  subject  :  but  he  remained  silent,  standing,  as 
it  were,  in  an  acquiescent  attitude. 

"  You  have  fought  your  fight,"  said  Paul.  "A  good 
fight,  too.  You  have  struck  3'our  blow  for  the  country. 
You  have  sown  your  seed,  but  the  harvest  is  not  3'ct. 
Now  it  is  time  to  think  of  your  own  safety,  of  the  haj)- 
piness  of  your  own  child." 

Stepan  Lanovitch  turned  away  and  sat  heavily  down. 
He  leaned  his  two  arms  on  the  table,  and  his  chin  upon 
his  clenched  hands. 

"  Why  not  leave  the  country  now  ;  at  all  events  for 
a  few  years?"  went  on  Paul,  and  when  a  man  who  is 
accustomed  to  command  stoops  to  persuade,  it  is  strong 
persuasion  that  he  wields.     "  You  can  take  Catrina  with 


STEPAN    RETURNS  355 

you.  You  will  be  assuring  lier  li.appiness,  wbicli,  at  all 
events,  is  something  tangible — a  present  harvest  !  I 
will  drive  over  to  Thors  now  and  bring  her  back.  You 
can  leave  to-night  and  go  to  America." 

Stepan  Lanovitch  raised  his  head  and  looked  hard 
into  Paul's  face. 

"  You  wish  it  ?  " 

"I  think,"  answered  Paul  steadily,  "that  it  is  for 
Catrina's  happiness." 

Then  Lanovitch  rose  up  and  took  Paul's  hand  in  his 
work-stained  grip. 

"  Go,  my  son  !  It  will  be  a  great  happiness  to  me.  I 
will  wait  here,"  he  said. 

Paul  went  straight  to  the  door.  He  was  a  man  with 
a  capacity  for  prompt  action,  which  seemed  to  rise  to 
demand.  Steinmetz  followed  him  out  into  the  passage 
and  took  him  by  the  arm. 

"  You  cannot  do  it,"  he  saido 

"Yes,  I  can,"  replied  Paul.  "I  can  find  my  w^ay 
through  the  forest.  No  one  will  venture  to  follow  me 
there  in  the  dark." 

Steinmetz  hesitated,  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and 
went  back  into  the  room. 

The  ladies  at  Thors  were  dressed  for  dinner — were, 
indeed,  awaiting  the  announcement  of  that  meal — 'when 
Paul  broke  in  upon  their  solitude.  He  did  not  pause  to 
lay  aside  his  furs,  but  went  into  tlie  long,  low  room, 
withdrawing  his  seal  gloves  painfully,  for  it  was  freez- 
ing as  it  only  can  freeze  in  March. 

The  countess  assailed  him  with  many  questions,  more 
or  less  sensible,  which  he  endured  patiently  until  the 
servant  had  left  the  room.  Catrina,  with  flushed  cheeks, 
stood  looking  at  him,  but  said  nothing. 

Paul  withdrew  his  gloves  and  submitted  to  the 
countess'  futile  tugs  at  his  fur  coat.  Then  Catrina 
spoke. 


356  THE     SOWERS 

"The  Baron  de  Cbaiixville  has  left  us,"  she  said, 
witliout  knowing  exactly  wh3\ 

For  the  moment  Paul  had  forgotten  Claude  do 
Chauxville's  existence. 

"  I  liave  news  for  you,"  he  said  ;  and  he  gently 
pushed  the  cliattering  countess  aside.  "  Stepan  Lano< 
vitch  is  at  Osterno.     He  arrived  to-night." 

"Ah,  they  have  set  him  free,  poor  man  !  Does  he 
wear  chains  on  his  ankles— is  his  hair  long?  My  poor 
Stepan  !     Ah,  but  what  a  stupid  man  ! " 

The  countess  collapsed  into  a  soft  chair.  She  chose 
a  soft  one,  obviously.  It  has  to  be  recorded  here 
that  she  did  not   receive  the  news  with  unmitigated 

joy. 

"  When  be  was  in  Siberia,"  she  gasped,  ''  one  knew 
at  all  events  where  he  was  ;  and  now,  nion  Dieu  !  what 
an  anxiety  !  " 

"I  have  come  over  to  see  whether  you  will  join  him 
to-night  and  go  with  him  to  America,"  said  Paul,  look- 
ing at  her. 

"  To— America— to-night  !  IMy  dear  Paul,  are  you 
mad  ?  One  cannot  do  such  things  as  that.  America  ! 
that  is  across  the  sea." 

"Yes,"  answered  Paul. 

"  And  I  am  such  a  bad  sailor.  Now^  if  it  had  been 
Paris " 

"But  it  cannot  be,"  interrupted  Paul.  "Will  you 
join  your  father  to-night?"  he  added,  turning  to 
Catrina. 

The  girl  was  looking  at  him  with  something  in  her 
eyes  that  he  did  not  care  to  meet. 

"And  go  to  America?  "  she  asked,  in  a  lifeless  voice. 

Paul  nodded. 

Catrina  turned  suddenly  away  from  him  and  walked 
to  the  fire,  where  she  stood  with  her  back  toward  him— 
a  small,  uncouth  figure  in  black  and  green,  the  lamplight 


STEPAN    RETURNS  357 

gleaming  on  her  wonderful  liair.     Slie  turned  suddenly 

again,  and,  coming  back,  stood  looking  into  his  face. 
"  I  will  go,"  she  said.     "  You  think  it  best  ?  " 
"  Yes,"  he  answered  ;  "  I  think  it  best." 
She   drew   a   sharp   breath  and  was  about  to  speak 

when  the  countess  interrupted  her. 

"  What !  "  she  cried.     *'  You  are  going  away  to-night 

like  this,  without  any  luggage  !     And  pray  what  is  to 

become  of  me  ?  " 

"  You  can  join  them  in  America,"  said  Paul,  in  his 

quietest  tone.     *'  Or  you  can  live  in  Paris,  at  last." 


CHAPTER  XLI 

DUTY 

It  was  not  now  a  veiy  cold  night.  There  were  fleecy 
clouds  thrown  like  puffs  of  smoke  against  the  western 
sky.  The  moon,  on  the  wane, — a  small  crescent  lying  on 
its  back, — was  lowering  toward  the  horizon.  The  ther- 
mometer had  risen  since  sunset,  as  it  often  does  in 
March.  There  was  a  suggestion  of  spring  in  the  air. 
It  seemed  that  at  last  the  long  winter  was  drawing  to  a 
close;  that  the  iron  grip  of  frost  was  relaxing. 

Paul  went  out  and  inspected  the  harness  by  the  light 
of  a  stable  lantern  held  in  the  mittened  hand  of  a  yem- 
schick.  He  had  reasons  of  his  own  for  absenting  him- 
self while  Catrina  bade  her  mother  farewell.  He  was 
rather  afraid  of  these  women. 

The  harness  inspected,  he  began  reckoning  how 
many  hours  of  moonlight  might  still  be  vouchsafed  to 
him.  The  stableman,  seeing  the  direction  of  his  gaze, 
began  to  talk  of  the  weather  and  the  possibilities  of 
snow  in  the  near  future.  Tiiey  conversed  in  low  voices 
together. 

Presently  the  door  opened  and  Catrina  came  quickly 
out,  followed  by  a  servant  carrying  a  small  hand-bag. 

Paul  could  not  see  Catrina's  face.  She  was  veiled  and 
furred  to  the  eyelids.  Without  a  word  the  girl  took  lier 
seat  in  the  sleigh,  and  the  servant  prepared  the  bear- 
skin rugs.  Paul  gathered  up  the  reins  and  took  his 
place  beside  her.  A  few  moments  were  required  to  draw 
up  the  rugs  and  fasten  them  witli  straps  ;  then  Paul 
gave  the  word  and  the  horses  leaped  forward. 


DUTY  359 

As  they  sped  down  the  avenue  Catrina  turned  and 
looked  her  last  on  Thors. 

Before  long  Paul  wheeled  into  the  trackless  forest. 
lie  had  come  very  carefully,  steering  chiefly  by  the 
moon  and  stars,  with  occasional  assistance  from  a  bend 
of  the  winding  river.  At  times  he  had  taken  to  tlie  ice, 
following  the  course  of  tlie  stream  for  a  few  miles.  No 
snow  had  fallen  ;  it  would  be  easy  to  return  on  his  own 
track.     Through  this  part  of  the  forest  no  road  was  cut. 

For  nearly  half  an  hour  tliey  drove  in  silence.  Only 
the  whistle  of  the  iron-bound  runners  on  the  powdery 
snow,  the  creak  of  the  warming  leather  on  the  horses, 
the  regular  breatliing  of  the  team,  broke  the  stillness  of 
the  forest.  Paul  hoped  against  hope  that  Catrina  was 
asleep.  Slie  sat  by  his  side,  her  arm  touching  his  sleeve, 
her  weight  thrown  against  him  at  such  times  as  the 
sleigh  bumped  over  a  fallen  tree  or  some  inequalit}^  of 
the  ground. 

He  could  not  help  wondering  what  thoughts  there 
were  behind  her  silence.  Steinmetz's  good-natured  ban- 
ter had  come  back  to  his  memor^^,  during  the  last  few 
days,  in  a  new  light. 

"  Paul,"  said  tlie  woman  at  his  side  quite  suddenly, 
breaking  the  silence  of  the  great  forest  where  they  had 
grown  to  life  and  sorrow  almost  side  by  side. 

"Yes." 

"  I  want  to  know  how  this  all  came  about.  It  is  not 
my  father's  doing.  There  is  something  quick,  and 
practical,  and  wise  which  suggests  jou  and  Ilerr  Stein- 
metz.  I  suspect  that  you  have  done  this — you  and  he — 
for  our  happiness." 

"  No,"  answered  Paul  ;  "  it  was  mere  accident.  Yonr 
father  heard  of  our  trouble  in  Kiew.  You  know  him — 
always  impulsive  and  reckless.  He  never  thinks  of  the 
danger.     He  came  to  help  us. " 

Catrina  smiled  wanlj-. 


360  THE     SOWEES 

"But  it  ?5  for  our  happiness,  is  it  not,  Paul?  You 
know  that  it  is — that  is  why  you  have  done  it.  I  have 
not  had  time  yet  to  realize  what  I  am  doing,  all  that  is 
going  to  happen.  But  if  it  is  your  doing,  I  think  I 
shall  be  content  to  abide  by  the  result." 

"It  is  not  my  doing,"  replied  Paul,  who  did  not  like 
her  wistful  tone.  "It  is  the  outcome  of  circumstances. 
Circumstances  have  been  ruling  ns  all  lately.  We  seem 
to  have  no  time  to  consider,  but  only  to  do  that  which 
seems  best  for  the  moment." 

"And  it  is  best  that  I  sliould  go  to  America  witli  my 
father?"  Her  voice  was  composed  and  quiet.  In  the 
dim  light  he  could  not  see  her  white  lips  ;  indeed,  he 
never  looked. 

"  It  seems  so  to  me,  undoubtedly,"  he  said.  "  In  doing 
this,  so  far  as  we  can  see  at  present,  it  seems  certain 
that  you  are  saving  your  father  from  Siberia.  You 
know  what  he  is;  he  never  thinks  of  his  own  safet3\ 
He  ought  never  to  have  come  here  to-night.  If  he  re- 
mains in  Russia,  it  is  an  absolute  certainty  tliat  he  will 
sooner  or  later  be  rearrested.  He  is  one  of  those  good 
people  who  require  saving  from  themselves." 

Catrina  nodded.  At  times  duty  is  the  kedge-anchor 
of  happiness.  The  girl  was  dimly  aware  that  slie  was 
holding  to  this.  She  was  simple  and  unsophisticated 
enough  to  consider  Paul's  opinion  infallible.  At  the 
great  cross-roads  of  life  we  are  apt  to  ask  the  wa}'-  of 
any  body  who  happens  to  be  near.  Catrina  might  per- 
haps have  made  a  worse  choice  of  counsel,  for  Paul  was 
honest. 

"As  you  put  it,"  she  said,  "  it  is  clearly  my  duty. 
There  is  a  sort  of  consolation  in  that,  however  painful  it 
may  be  at  the  time.  I  suppose  it  is  consolatory  to  look 
back  and  think  that  at  all  events  one  did  one's  duty." 

"  I  don't  know,"  answered  Paul  simply ;  "  I  suppose 


DUTY  361 

Looking  back  was  not  included  in  his  method  of  life, 
which  was  rather  characterized  by  a  large  faith  and  a 
forward  pressure.  Whenever  there  was  question  of  con- 
sidering life  as  an  abstract,  he  drew  within  his  shell  with 
a  manlike  shyness.  He  had  no  generalities  ready  for 
each  emergency. 

"  Would  father  have  gone  alone  ?  "  she  asked,  with  a 
very  human  thrill  of  hope  in  her  voice. 

"No,"  answered  Paul  steadily,  "I  think  not.  But 
you  can  ask  him." 

They  had  never  been  so  distant  as  they  were  at  this 
moment — so  cold,  such  mere  acquaintances.  And  they 
had  played  together  in  one  nursery. 

"  Of  course,  if  that  is  the  case,"  said  the  girl,  "  my 
duty  is  quite  clear." 

"  It  required  some  persuasion  to  make  him  consent  to 
go,  even  with  you,"  said  Paul. 

A  rough  piece  of  going — for  there  was  no  road — 
debarred  further  conversation  at  this  time.  The  sleigh 
rolled  and  bumped  over  one  fallen  tree  after  another. 
Paul,  with  his  feet  stretched  out,  wedged  firmly  into  the 
sleigh,  encouraged  the  tired  horses  with  rein  and  voice. 
Catrina  was  compelled  to  steady  herself  with  both  hands 
on  the  bar  of  the  apron  ;  for  the  apron  of  a  Russian  sleigh 
is  a  heavy  piece  of  leather  stretched  on  a  wooden  bar. 

"Then  you  think  my  duty  is  quite  clear?"  repeated 
the  girl  at  length. 

Paul  did  not  answer  at  once, 

"  I  am  sure  of  it,"  he  said. 

And  there  tlie  question  ended.  Catrina  Lanovitch, 
who  had  never  been  ruled  by  those  about  her,  shaped 
her  whole  life  unquestioningly  upon  an  opinion. 

They  did  not  speak  for  sometime,  and  then  it  was  the 
girl  who  broke  the  silence. 

"  I  have  a  confession  to  make  and  a  favor  to  ask,"  she 
said  bluntly. 


362  THE     SOWERS 

Paul's  attitude  denoted  attention,  but  lie  said  nothing. 
"  It  is  about  the  Baron  de  Chauxville,"  she  said. 

"  I  am  a  coward,"  she  went  on.  "  I  did  not  know  it 
before.  It  is  ratlier  humiliating.  I  have  been  trying 
for  some  weeks  to  tell  you  something,  but  I  am  horribly 
afraid  of  it.  I  am  afraid  you  will  despise  me.  I  have 
been  a  fool — worse,  perhaps.  I  never  knew  that  Claude 
de  Chauxville  was  the  sort  of  person  he  is.  I  allowed 
him  to  find  out  things  about  me  which  he  never  should 
have  known — my  own  private  affairs,  I  mean.  Then  I 
became  frightened,  and  he  tried  to  make  use  of  me.  I 
think  he  makes  use  of  every-body.  You  know  what 
he  is." 

"  Yes,"  answered  Paul,  "  I  know." 

"He  hates  you,"  she  went  on.  "I  do  not  want  to 
make  mischief,  but  I  suppose  he  wanted  to  marry  the 
princess.  His  vanity  was  wounded  because  she  preferred 
you,  and  he  wanted  to  be  avenged  upon  you.  Wounds 
to  the  vanity  never  heal.  I  do  not  know  how  he  did  it, 
Paul,  but  he  made  me  help  him  in  his  schemes.  I 
could  have  prevented  you  from  going  to  the  bear  hunt, 
for  I  suspected  him  then.  I  could  have  prevented  my 
mother  from  inviting  him  to  Thors.  I  could  have  put 
a  thousand  difficulties  in  his  wa}^  but  I  did  not.  I 
helped  him.  I  told  him  about  the  people  and  who  were 
the  worst — who  had  been  influenced  by  the  Nihilists  and 
who  would  not  work.  I  allowed  him  to  stay  on  here 
and  carry  out  his  plan.  All  this  trouble  among  the 
peasants  is  his  handiwork.  He  has  organized  a  regular 
rising  against  you.  He  is  horribly  clever.  He  left  us 
yestei"daj%  l)ut  I  am  convinced  that  he  is  in  the  neigh- 
borhood still." 

She  stopped  and  reflected.  There  was  something 
wanting  in  the  story,  which  she  could  not  supply.  It 
was  a  motive.     A  half -confession  is  almost  an  impossi- 


DUTY  363 

bility.  When  we  speak  of  ourselves  it  must  be  all  or 
nothing — preferably,  nothing. 

"I  clo  not  know  why  I  did  it,"  she  said.  "  It  was  a 
sort  of  period  I  went  through.     I  cannot  explain." 

He  did  not  ask  her  to  do  so.  They  were  singularly 
like  brother  and  sister  in  their  mental  attitude.  They 
had  driven  through  twenty  miles  of  forest  which  be- 
lonsced  to  one  or  other  of  them.  Each  was  touched 
by  the  intangible,  inexplicable  dignity  that  belongs  to 
the  possession  of  great  lands — to  the  inheritance  of  a 
great  name. 

"  That  is  the  confession,"  she  said. 

He  gave  a  little  laugh. 

"If  none  of  us  had  worse  than  that  upon  our  con- 
sciences," he  answered,  "  there  would  be  little  harm  in 
the  world,  De  Chauxville's  schemes  have  only  hurried 
on  a  crisis  which  was  foreordained.  The  progress  of 
humanity  cannot  be  stayed.  They  have  tried  to  stay 
it  in  this  country.  They  will  go  on  trying  until 
the  crash  comes.  What  is  the  favor  you  have  to 
ask?" 

"  You  must  leave  Osterno,"  she  urged  earnestly  ;  "  it 
is  unsafe  to  delay  even  a  few  hours.  M.  de  Chaux- 
ville  said  there  would  be  no  danger.  I  believed  him 
then,  but  I  do  not  now.  Besides,  I  know  the  peasants. 
They  are  hard  to  rouse,  but  once  excited  they  are  uncon- 
trollable. They  are  afraid  of  nothing.  You  must  get 
away  to-night." 

Paul  made  no  answer. 

She  turned  slowly  in  her  seat  and  looked  into  his  face 
by  the  light  of  the  waning- moon. 

"  Do  you  mean  that  you  will  not  go  ?  " 

He  met  her  glance  with  his  grave,  slow  smile. 

"There  is  no  question  of  going,"  he  answered.  "You 
must  know  that." 

She  did  not  attempt  to  persuade.     Perhaps  there  was 


364  THE     SOWEKS 

sometliing  in  liis  voice  wliich  she  as  a  Russian  under- 
stood— a  ring  of  tliat  wliicli  we  call  pig-lieadedness  in 
others. 

"  It  must  be  splendid  to  be  a  man,"  she  said  suddenly, 
in  a  ringing  voice.  "  One  feeling  in  me  made  me  ask 
you  the  favor,  while  another  was  a  sense  of  gladness  at 
your  certain  refusal.  I  wish  I  was  a  man.  I  envy  you. 
You  do  not  know  how  I  env}''  you,  Paul." 

Paul  gave  a  quiet  laugh — such  a  laugh  as  one 
hears  in  the  trenches  after  the  low  hum  of  a  passing 
ball. 

"If  it  is  danger  you  want,  you  will  have  more  than  I 
in  the  next  week,"  he  answered.  "  Steinmetz  and  I  knew 
that  3^ou  were  the  only  woman  in  Pussia  who  could  get 
your  father  safely  out  of  the  country.  That  is  why  I 
came  for  you." 

The  girl  did  not  answer  at  once.  They  were  driving 
on  the  road  again  now,  and  the  sleigh  was  running 
smoothly. 

"I  suppose,"  she  said  reflectively  at  length,  "  that  the 
secret  of  the  enormous  influence  you  exercise  over  all 
who  come  in  contact  with  j^ou  is  that  joii  drag  the  best 
out  of  ever}^  one — the  best  that  is  in  them." 

Paul  did  not  answer. 

"  What  is  that  light  ?  "  she  asked  suddenly,  laying 
her  hand  on  the  thick  fur  of  his  sleeve.  She  was  not 
nervous,  but  very  watchful.  "  There — straight  in 
front." 

"  It  is  the  sleigh,"  replied  Paul,  "  with  your  father  and 
Steinmetz.  I  arranged  that  the}^  should  meet  us  at  the 
cross-roads.  You  must  be  at  the  Volga  before  daylight. 
Send  the  horses  on  to  Tver.  I  have  given  j^ou  Minna 
and  The  Warrior  ;  they  can  do  the  journe}^  with  one 
hour's  rest,  but  you  must  drive  them." 

Catrina  had  swayed  forward  against  the  bar  of  the 
apron  in  a  strange  way,  for  the  road  was  quite  smooth. 


DUTY  365 

She  placed  her  gloved  hands  on  the  bar  and  held  herself 
upright  with  a  peculiar  effort. 

"  What  ?  "  said  Paul.  For  she  had  made  an  inarticu- 
late sound. 

"Notliing,"  she  ansv/eredo  Then,  after  a  pause,  "I 
did  not  know  that  we  were  to  go  so  soon.  That  was 
all." 


CHAPTER  XLII 

THE     STORM     BURSTS 

The  large  drawing-room  was  brilliantly  lighted. 
Another  weary  day  had  dragged  to  its  close.  It  was 
the  Tuesday  evening — the  last  Tuesday  in  Marcli  five 
years  ago.  The  starosta  had  not  been  near  the  castle 
all  day.  Steinmetz  and  Paul  had  never  lost  sight  of  the 
ladies  since  breakfast  time.  They  had  not  ventured  out 
of  doors.  There  w^as  in  the  atmosphere  a  sense  of  fore- 
boding— the  stillness  of  a  crisis.  Etta  had  been  defiant 
and  silent — a  dangerous  humor — all  day.  Maggie  had 
watched  Paul's  face  with  steadfast,  quiet  eyes  full  of 
courage,  but  she  knew  now  that  there  was  danger. 

The  conversation  at  breakfast  and  luncheon  had  been 
maintained  by  Steinmetz — always  collected  and  a  little 
humorous.  It  was  now  dinner  time.  The  whole  castle 
was  brilliantly  lighted,  as  if  for  a  great  assembly  of 
guests.  During  the  last  week  a  fuller  state — a  greater 
ceremony — had  been  observed  by  Paul's  orders,  and 
Steinmetz  had  thought  more  than  once  of  that  historical 
event  which  appealed  to  his  admiration  most — the  Indian 
Mutin3^ 

Maggie  was  in  the  drawing-room  alone.  She  was 
leaning  one  hand  and  arm  on  the  mantel-piece,  looking 
thoughtfully  into  the  fire.  The  rustle  of  silk  made  her 
turn  her  head.  It  was  Etta,  beautifully  dressed,  with  a 
white  face  and  eyes  dull  with  suspense. 

"  I  think  it  is  warmer  to-night,"  said  Maggie,  urged 
by  a  sudden  necessity  of  speech,  hampered  by  a  sudden 
chill  at  the  heart. 


THE    STORM    BURSTS  367 

"  Yes,"  answered  Etta.     And  slie  sliivered. 

For  a  moment  there  was  a  little  silence  and  Etta 
looked  at  the  clock.     It  was  ten  minutes  to  seven. 

A  high  wind  was  blowing,  the  first  of  the  equinoctial 
gales  heralding  the  spring.  The  sound  of  the  wind  in 
the  great  chimney  was  like  the  moaning  of  high  rig- 
ging at  sea. 

The  door  opened  and  Steinmetz  came  in,  Etta's  face 
hardened,  her  lips  closed  with  a  snap.  Steinmetz  looked 
at  her  and  at  Maggie.  For  once  he  seemed  to  have  no 
pleasantry  ready  for  use.  He  walked  toward  a  table 
where  some  books  and  newspapers  la}^  in  pleasant  pro- 
fusion. He  was  standing  there  when  Paul  came  into 
the  room.  The  prince  glanced  at  Maggie.  He  saw 
where  his  wife  stood,  but  he  did  not  look  at  her. 

Steinmetz  was  writing  something  on  half  a  sheet  of 
notepaper,  in  pencil.  He  pushed  it  across  the  table 
toward  Paul,  who  drew  it  nearer  to  him. 

*'  Are  you  armed  ?  "  were  the  written  words. 

Paul  crushed  the  paper  in  the  hollow  of  his  hand 
and  threw  it  into  the  fire,  where  it  burned  away.  He 
also  glanced  at  the  clock.  It  was  five  minutes  to 
seven. 

Suddenly  the  door  was  thrown  open  and  a  manservant 
rushed  in — pale,  confused,  terror-stricken.  He  was  a 
giant  footman  in  the  gorgeous  livery  of  the  Alexis. 

"Excellency,"  he  stammered  in  Russian,  "the  castle 
is  surrounded — they  will  kill  us — they  will  burn  us 
out " 

He  stopped  abashed  before  Paul's  pointing  finger  and 
ston}^  face. 

"  Leave  the  room  !  "  said  Paul.  "  You  foro^et  your- 
self." 

Through  the  open  door- way  to  which  Paul  pointed 
peered  the  ashen  faces  of  other  servants  huddled 
together   like   sheep. 


368  THE     SOAVEKS 

''  Leave  che  room  ! "  repeated  Paul,  and  the  man 
obeyed  him,  walking  to  the  door  unsteadily  with  quiver- 
ing chin.  On  the  threshold  he  paused.  Paul  stood 
pointing  to  the  door.  He  had  a  poise  of  the  head — some 
sudden  awakening  of  the  blood  that  had  coursed  in  the 
veins  of  hereditary  potentates.  Maggie  looked  at  him  ; 
she  liad  never  known  him  like  this.  She  had  known  the 
man,  she  had  never  encountered  the  prince. 

The  big  clock  over  the  castle  boomed  out  the  hour, 
and  at  the  same  instant  there  arose  a  roar  like  the  voice 
of  the  surf  on  a  Malabar  shore.  There  was  a  crashing 
of  glass  almost  in  the  room  itself.  Already  Steinmetz 
was  drawing  the  curtains  closer  over  the  windows  in 
order  to  prevent  the  light  from  filtering  through  the 
interstices  of  the  closed  shutters. 

"  Only  stones,"  he  said  to  Paul,  Avith  his  grim  smile  ; 
"  it  might  have  been  bullets." 

As  if  in  corroboration  of  his  suggestion  the  sharp  ring 
of  more  than  one  fire-arm  rang  out  above  the  dull  roar 
of  many  voices. 

Steinmetz  crossed  the  room  to  where  Etta  Avas  stand- 
ing, white-lipped,  by  the  fire.  Her  clenched  hand  was 
gripping  Maggie's  wrist.  She  Avas  half  hidden  behind 
her  cousin.  Maggie  was  looking  at  Paul.  Etta  Avas 
obviously  conscious  of  Steinmetz's  gaze  and  approach. 

"  I  asked  you  before  to  tell  me  all  you  knew,"  he 
said.     "  You  refused.     Will  j^ou  do  it  now  ?  " 

Etta  met  his  glance  for  a  moment,  shrugged  her 
shoulders,  and  turned  her  back  on  him.  Paul  was 
standing  in  the  open  door-way  Avith  his  back  turned 
toAvard  them— alone.  The  palace  had  never  looked  so 
vast  as  it  did  at  that  moment— brilliantly  lighted, 
gorgeous,  empty. 

Through  the  hail  of  blows  on  the  stout  doors,  the 
rattle  of  stones  at  the  windo^vs,  the  prince  could  hear 
yells  of  execration  and  the  Avild  laughter  that  is  bred  of 


TIIK    STORM    BURSTS  369 

destruction.  He  turned  and  entered  the  room.  His 
f.ace  was  gray  and  terrible. 

"  They  have  no  chance,"  he  said,  "  of  effecting  an 
entrance  by  force;  the  lower  windows  are  barred. 
Tliey  liave  no  ladders,  Steinraetz  and  I  have  seen  to 
til  at.     We  liave  been  expecting  this  for  some  days." 

lie  turned  toward  Steinmetz  as  if  seeking  confirma- 
tion.  The  din  was  increasing.  AViien  the  German  spoke 
he  liad  to  shout. 

"  We  can  beat  tlicm  back  if  we  like.  We  can  slioot 
them  down  from  the  windows,  But" — he  paused, 
shrugged  liis  shouhlers,  and  Laughed — "  what  will  you  ! 
This  prince  will  not  shoot  his  father's  serfs." 

"  We  must  leave  you,"  went  on  Paul.  "  Wa  must 
beware  of  treachery.  Whatever  happens,  we  shall  not 
leave  the  house.  If  the  worst  comes,  we  make  our  last 
stand  in  tliis  room.  Whatever  happens,  stay  here  till 
we  come." 

He  left  the  room,  followed  by  Steinmetz.  There  were 
only  three  doors  in  the  impregnable  stone  walls  ;  the 
great  entrance,  a  side  door  for  use  in  times  of  deep 
snow,  and  the  small  concealed  entrance  by  which  the 
starosta  was  in  the  habit  of  reaching  his  Jiiasters. 

For  a  moment  the  two  men  stood  at  the  head  of  the 
stairs  listening  to  the  wild  commotion.  They  were 
turning  to  descend  the  state  stairs  when  a  piercing 
shriek,  immediately  drowned  by  a  yell  of  triumph, 
broke  the  silence  of  the  interior  of  the  castle.  There 
was  a  momentary  stillness,  followed  by  another 
shriek. 

"They  are  in  !  "  said  Steinmetz.     "The  side  door." 

And  the  two  men  looked  at  each  other  with  wide 
eyes  full  of  knowledge. 

As  they  ran  to  the  foot  of  the  broad  staircase  the 
tramp  of  scuffling  feet,  the  roar  of  angry  voices,  came 
through  the  passages  from  the  back  of  curtained  door- 
24 


370  THE     SOWERS 

ways.      The    servants'    quarters   seemed   to   be    pande« 
monium.     The  sounds  approached. 

"  Half-way  up  !  "  said  Paul,  and  they  ran  half-way  up 
the  broad  stah-case  side  by  side.  There  they  stood  and 
waited. 

In  a  moment  the  baize  doors  were  burst  open,  and 
a  scuffling  mass  of  men  and  women  poured  into  the 
hall — a  very  sewer  of  humanity. 

A  yell  of  execration  signalized  their  recognition  of  the 
prince. 

"  They  are  mad  ! "  said  Steinmetz,  as  the  crowd 
surged  forward  toward  the  stairs  Avith  waving  arms  and 
the  dull  gleam  of  steel  ;  with  wild  faces  turned  upward, 
wild  mouths  bellowing  hatred  and  murder. 

"  It  is  a  chance — it  may  stop  them  !  "  said  Steinmetz. 

His  arm  was  outstretched  steadily.  A  loud  report,  a 
little  puff  of  smoke  shooting  up^vard  to  the  gilded  ceil- 
ing, and  for  one  brief  moment  the  crowd  stood  still, 
watching  one  of  their  ringleaders,  who  was  turning  and 
twisting  on  his  side  half  a  dozen  steps  from  the 
bottom. 

The  man  writhed  in  silence  with  his  hand  to  his 
breast,  and  the  crowd  stood  aghast.  He  held  up  his 
hand  and  gazed  at  it  with  a  queer  stupefaction.  The 
blood  dripped  from  his  fingers.  Then  his  chin  went  up 
as  if  some  one  was  gripping  the  back  of  his  neck.  He 
turned  over  slowly  and  rolled  to  the  bottom  of  the 
stairs. 

Then  Paul  raised  his  voice. 

"  Listen  to  me  !  "  he  said. 

But  he  got  no  farther,  for  some  one  shot  at  him  from 
the  background,  over  the  frantic  heads  of  the  others,  and 
missed  him.  The  bullet  lodged  in  the  wall  at  the  head 
of  the  stairs,  in  the  jamb  of  the  gorgeous  door-way.  It 
is  there  to-da}^ 

There  was  a  yell  of  hatred,  and  an  ugly  charge  toward 


THE    STORM    BURSTS  371 

the  stairs  ;  but  tlie  siglit  of  the  two  revolvers  lieUl  tliem 
there — motionless  for  a  few  moments.  Those  in  front 
puslied  back,  while  the  shouters  in  the  safe  background 
urged  them  forward  by  word  and  gesture. 

Two  men  holding  a  liundred  in  check  !  But  one  of  the 
two  was  a  prince,  which  makes  all  the  difference,  and 
will  continue  to  make  that  difference,  despite  halfpenny 
journalism,  until  the  end  of  the  world. 

"  What  do  you  want  ?  "  cried  Paul. 

"  Oh,  I  will  wait  !  "  he  shouted,  in  the  next  pause. 
"  There  is  plenty  of  time — when  you  are  tired  of 
shouting." 

Several  of  them  proceeded  to  tell  him  Avhat  they 
wanted.  An  old  story,  too  stale  for  repetition  here. 
Paul  recognized  in  the  din  of  many  voices  the  tinkling 
arguments  of  the  professional  agitator  all  the  world 
over — the  cry  of  "  Equality  !  Equality  !  "  when  men  are 
obviously  created  unequal. 

"  Look  out ! "  said  Paul  ;  "  I  believe  they  are  going  to 
make  a  rush." 

All  the  while  the  foremost  men  were  edging  toward 
the  stairs,  while  the  densely  packed  throng  at  the  back 
were  struggling  among  themselves.  In  the  passages 
behind,  some  were  j^elling  and  screaming  with  a  Avild 
intonation  which  Steinmetz  recognized.  He  had  been 
through  the  Commune. 

"  Those  fellows  at  the  back  have  been  killing  some 
one,"  he  said  ;  "  I  can  tell  by  their  voices.  They  are 
drunk  with  the  sight  of  blood." 

Some  new  orator  gained  the  ears  of  the  rabble  at  this 
moment,  and  the  ill-kempt  heads  swayed  from  side  to 
side. 

"It  is  useless,"  he  cried,  "telling  him  what  you  want. 
He  will  not  give  it  you.  Go  and  take  it !  Go  and  take 
it,  little  fathers  ;  that  is  the  onl}^  way  !  " 

Steinmetz  raised  his  hand  and  peered  down  into  the 


872  THE     SOWERS 

crowd,  looking  for  the  man  of  eloquence,  and  the  voice 
was  luislied. 

At  this  moment,  however,  the  yelling  increased,  and 
through  the  door-way  leading  to  the  servants'  quarters 
came  a  stream  of  men — bloodstained,  ragged,  torn. 
They  were  waving  arms  and  implements  above  their 
heads. 

"  Down  with  the  aristocrats  !  kill  them — kill  them  !  " 
they  were  shrieking. 

A  little  volley  of  fire-arms  further  excited  them.  But 
vodka  is  not  a  good  thing  to  shoot  upon,  and  Paul  stood 
untouched,  waiting,  as  he  had  said,  until  they  were  tired 
of  shouting. 

"  Now,'*  j^elled  Steinmetz  to  him  in  English,  "  we 
must   go.     We    can    make  a  stand  at  the  head  of  the 

stairs,  then  the  door-way,  then "     lie  shrugged  his 

shoulders.  "  Tlien — the  end,"  he  added,  as  they  moved 
up  the  stairs  step  by  step,  backward.  "My  very  good 
friend,"  he  went  on,  "  at  the  door  we  must  begin  to 
shoot  them  down.  It  is  our  only  chance.  It  is,  more- 
over, our  duty  toward  the  ladies." 

"Tliere  is  one  alternative,"  answered  Paul. 

"  Tlie  Moscow  Doctor  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"The}''  ma}^  turn,"  said  Paul ;  "they  are  just  in  that 
humor." 

The  new-comers  were  the  most  dangerous.  TJi  oy 
were  forcing  their  Avay  to  the  front.  There  was  no 
doubt  that,  as  soon  as  they  could  penetrate  the  denselv 
packed  mob,  they  would  charge  up  the  stairs,  even  in 
face  of  a  heavy  lire.  The  reek  of  vodka  was  borne  up 
in  the  heated  atmosphere,  mingled  Avith  the  nauseating 
odor  of  filthy  clothing. 

"  Go,"  said  Steinmetz,  "  and  put  on  your  doctor's 
clothes.     I  can  keep  them  back  for  a  fow  minutes." 

There  was  no  time   to  be  lost.     Paul  slipped  away, 


THE    STORM    BURSTS  373 

leaving  Stoinmotz  alone  at  the  snnimit  of  tiie  state  stair- 
way, standing  grinil}^,  revolver  in  liand. 

In  the  drawing-room  Paul  found  Maggie,  alone. 

"  Where  is  Etta  ?  "  he  asked. 

*'  She  left  the  room  some  time  ago.." 

"  But  I  told  her  to  stay,"  said  Paul. 

To  this  Maggie  made  no  answer.  She  was  looking 
at  him  with  an  anxious  scrutiny.. 

"  Did  they  shoot  at  you  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Yes  ;  but  not  straight,"  he  answered,  with  a  little 
laugh,  as  he  hurried  on. 

In  a  few  moments  he  was  back  in  the  drawing-room, 
a  different  man,  in  the  rough,  stained  clothes  of  the 
Moscow  Doctor.  Tlie  din  on  the  stairs  was  louder. 
Steinmetz  was  almost  in  the  door-way.  He  was  shooting 
economically,  picking  his  men. 

With  an  effort  Paul  dragged  one  or  two  heavy  pieces 
of  furniture  across  the  room,  in  the  form  of  a  rough 
barricade.  He  pointed  to  the  hearthrug  where  Maggie 
was  to  stand. 

*'  Ready  !  "  he  shouted  to  Steinmetz.     "  Come  !  " 

Tiie  German  ran  in,  and  Paul  closed  the  barricade. 

The  rabble  poured  in  at  the  open  door,  screaming  and 
shouting.  Bloodstained,  ragged,  wild  with  the  madness 
of  murder,  they  crowded  to  the  barricade.  There  they 
stopped,  gazing  stupidly  at  Paul. 

"  The  Moscow  Doctor— the  Moscow  Doctor  !  "  passed 
from  lip  to  lip.  It  was  the  women  who  shouted  it  the 
loudest.  Like  the  wind  through  a  forest  it  swept  out  of 
the  room  and  down  the  stairs.  Those  crowding  up  pushed 
on  and  uttered  the  words  as  they  came.  The  room  was 
packed  with  them. 

"  Yes  ! "  shouted  Steinmetz,  at  the  top  of  his  great 
voice,  "and  the  prince  ! " 

He  knew  the  note  to  strike,  and  struck  with  a  sure 
band.     The  barricade    was  torn  aside,  and  the  people 


3  74  THE     SOWERS 

swept  forward,  falling  on  their  knees,  grovelling  at  Paul's 
feet,  kissing  the  hem  of  his  garment,  seizing  his  strong- 
hands  in  theirs. 

It  was  a  mighty  harvest.  That  which  is  sown  in  the 
people's  hearts  bears  a  thousandfold  at  last. 

"  Get  them  out  of  the  place — open  the  big  doors/^ 
said  Paul  to  Steinmetz.  He  stood  cold  and  grave 
among  them. 

Some  of  them  were  already  sneaking  toward  the  door 
— the  ringleaders,  the  talkers  from  the  towns — mindful 
of  their  own  necks  in  this  chano^e  of  feelinn^. 

Steinmetz  hustled  them  out,  bidding  them  take  their 
dead  with  them.  Some  of  the  servants  reappeared, 
peeping,  white-faced,  behind  curtains.  When  the  last 
villager  had  crossed  the  threshold,  these  ran  forward  to 
close  and  bar  the  great  doors. 

"  No,"  said  Paul,  from  the  head  of  the  stairs,  "  leave 
them  open." 

So  the  great  doors  stood  defiantly  open.  The  lights 
of  the  state  staircase  flared  out  over  the  village  as  the 
peasants  crept  crest-fallen  to  their  cottages.  They 
glanced  up  shamefacedly,  but  they  had  no  word  to  say. 

Steinmetz,  in  the  drawing-room,  looked  at  Paul  with 
his  resigned  semi-humorous  shrug  of  the  shoulders. 

"  Touch-and-go,  mein  lieber  !  "  he  said. 

"Yes  ;  an  end  of  Russia  for  us,"  answered  the  prince. 

He  moved  toward  the  door  leadinGT  throuofh  to  the 
old  castle. 

"  I  am  going  to  look  for  Etta,"  he  said. 

"And  I,"  said  Steinmetz,  going  to  the  other  entrance, 
''  am  going  to  see  who  opened  the  side  door." 


CHAPTER  XLin 

BEHIND     THE    VEIL 

"  Will  yon  come  with  me  ?  "  said  Paul  to  Maggie. 
"I  will  send  the  servants  to  put  this  room  to  rights." 

Maggie  followed  him  out  of  the  room,  and  togetlier 
they  went  tlirough  the  passages,  calling  Etta  and  look- 
ing for  her.  There  was  an  air  of  gloom  and  chilliness 
in  the  rooms  of  the  old  castle.  The  outline  of  the  great 
stones,  dimly  discernihle  through  the  wall-paper,  was 
singularly  suggestive  of  a  fortress  thinl}^  disguised. 

"  I  suppose,"  said  Paul,  "  that  Etta  lost  her  nerve." 

"  Yes,"  answered  Maggie  doubtfully  ;  "  I  think  it 
was  that." 

Paul  went  on.  He  carried  a  lamp  in  one  steady 
hand. 

"  We  shall  probably  find  her  in  one  of  these  rooms," 
he  said.  "  It  is  so  easy  to  lose  one's  self  among  the  pass- 
ages and  staircases." 

They  passed  on  through  the  great  smoking-room, 
with  its  hunting  trophies.  The  lynx,  with  its  face  of 
Claude  de  Chauxville,  grinned  at  them  darkly  from  its 
pedestal. 

Half-way  down  the  stairs  leading  to  the  side  door  they 
met  Steinmetz  coming  hastily  up.  His  face  was  white 
and  drawn  with  horror. 

"You  must  not  go  down  here,"  he  said,  in  a  husky 
voice,  barring  the  passage  with  his  arm. 

"  Why  not  ?  " 

"  Go  up  again  !  "  said  Steinmetz  breathlessly.  "  You 
must  not  no  down  liere." 


376  THE     SOWEKS 

I 

Paul  laid  bis  hand  on  the  broad  arm  stretched  across 
the  stairway.  For  a  moment  it  almost  appeared  to  be 
a  physical  struggle,  then  Steinmetz  stepped  aside. 

"I  beg  of  you,"  he  said,  *'  not  to  go  down." 

And  Paul  went  on,  followed  by  Steinmetz,  and  behind 
them,  Maggie.  At  the  foot  of  the  stairs  a  broader 
passage  led  to  the  side  door,  and  from  this  other  passages 
opened  into  the  servants'  quarters,  and  communicated 
through  the  kitchens  with  the  modern  building. 

It  was  evident  that  the  door  leading  to  the  grassy 
slope  at  the  back  of  the  castle  was  open,  for  a  cold  wind 
blew  up  the  stairs  and  made  the  lamps  flicker. 

At  the  end  of  the  passage  Paul  stopped. 

Steinmetz  was  a  little  behind  him,  holding  Maggie 
back. 

The  two  lamps  lighted  up  the  passage  and  showed 
the  white  form  of  the  Princess  Etta  lying  huddled  up 
against  the  wall  The  face  was  hidden,  but  there  was  no 
m^istaking  the  beautiful  dress  and  hair.  It  could  only 
be  Etta.  Paul  stooped  down  and  looked  at  her,  but  he 
did  not  touch  her.  He  went  a  few  paces  forward  and 
closed  the  door.  Beyond  Etta  a  black  form  lay  across 
the  passage,  all  trodden  underfoot  and  dishevelled. 
Paul  held  the  lamp  down,  and  through  the  mud  and 
blood  Claude  de  Chauxville's  clear-out  features  were 
outlined. 

Death  is  always  unmistakable,  though  it  be  shown  by 
nothing  more  than  a  heap  of  muddy  clothes. 

Claude  de  Chauxville  was  lying  across  the  passage. 
He  had  been  trodden  underfoot  by  the  stream  of  mad- 
dened peasants  who  had  entered  by  this  door  which  had 
been  opened  for  them,  whom  Steinmetz  had  checked  at 
the  foot  of  the  stairs  by  shooting  their  ringleader. 

De  Chauxville's  scalp  was  torn  away  by  a  blow,  prob- 
ably given  with  a  spade  or  some  blunt  instrument.  His 
handfall  muddy  and  bloodstained,  still  lield  a  revolver. 


BEHIND    THE    VEIL  377 

Tlie  other  liand  was  stretclvcd  out  toward  Etta,  wlio  lay 
across  his  feet,  (;roiiching  against  tl>e  wall.  ])eatli  had 
found  and  left  her  in  an  attitude  of  fear,  shielding  her 
bowed  head  from  a  blow  with  her  upraised  hands.  Her 
loosened  hair  fell  in  a  long  wave  of  gold  down  to  the 
bloodstained  hand  outstretched  toward  her.  She  was 
kneeling  in  De  Chauxville's  blood,  which  stained  the 
stone  floor  of  the  passage. 

Paul  leaned  fwward  and  laid  his  fingers  on  the  bare 
arm,  just  below  a  bracelet  which  gleamed  in  the  lamp- 
light. She  was  quite  dead.  He  held  a  lamp  close  to 
lier.  There  was  no  mark  or  scratch  upon  her  arm  or 
shoulder.  The  blow  which  had  torn  her  hair  down  had 
killed  her  without  any  disfigurement.  The  silken  skirt 
of  her  dress,  which  lay  across  the  passage,  was  trampled 
and  stained  by  the  tread  of  a  hundred  feet. 

Then  Paul  went  to  Claude  de  Chauxville.  He  stooped 
down  and  slipped  his  skilled  fingers  inside  the  torn  and 
mud-stained  clothing.     Here  also  was  death. 

Paul  stood  upright  and  looked  at  them  as  they  lay, 
silent,  motionless,  with  their  tale  untold.  Maggie  and 
Steinmetz  stood  watching  him.  He  went  to  the  door, 
which  w^as  of  solid  oak  four  inches  thick,  and  examined 
the  fastenings.  There  had  been  no  damage  done  to 
bolt,  or  lock,  or  hinge.  The  door  had  been  opened  from 
the  inside.  He  looked  slowly  round,  measuring  the 
distances. 

"  What  is  the  meaning  of  it  ?  "  he  said  at  length  to 
Steinmetz,  in  a  dull  voice.  Maggie  winced  at  the  sound 
of  it. 

Steinmetz  did  not  answer  at  once,  but  hesitated — after 
the  manner  of  a  man  weighing  words  which  will  never 
be  forgotten  by  their  hearers. 

"It  seems  to  me,"  he  said,  with  a  slow,  wise  charity, 
the  best  of  its  kind,  "  quite  clear  that  De  Chauxville  died 
in  trying  to  save  her — the  rest  must  be  only  guesswork." 


378  THE     SOWERS 

Maggie  had  come  forward  and  was  standing  be« 
side  liim. 

*'  And  in  guessing  let  us  Le  charitable — is  it  not  so  ?  " 
he  said,  turning  to  her,  with  a  twist  of  his  humor- 
ous lips. 

"  I  suppose,"  he  went  on,  after  a  little  pause,  "  that 
Claude  de  Chauxville  has  been  at  the  bottom  of  all  our 
trouble.  All  his  life  he  has  been  one  of  the  stormy 
petrels  of  diplomacy.  Wherever  he  has  gone  trouble 
has  followed  later.  By  some  means  lie  obtained  suffi- 
cient mastei-y  over  the  princess  to  compel  her  to  obey 
his  orders.  The  means  he  emploj^ed  were  threats.  He 
had  it  in  his  power  to  make  mischief,  and  in  such  affairs 
a  woman  is  so  helpless  that  we  may  well  forgive  that 
which  she  may  do  in  a  moment  of  panic.  I  imagine  that 
he  frightened  the  poor  lady  into  obedience  to  his  com- 
mand that  she  should  open  this  door.  Before  dinner, 
when  we  were  all  in  the  drawing-room,  I  noted  a  little 
mark  of  dust  on  the  white  silk  skirt  of  her  dress.  At 
the  time  I  thought  only  that  her  maid  had  been  careless. 
Perhaps  you  noticed  it,  mademoiselle?  Ladies  note 
such  things." 

He  turned  to  Maggie,  who  nodded  her  head. 

"That,"  he  went  on,  "was  the  dust  of  tliese  old 
passages.  She  had  been  down  here.  She  had  opened 
this  door." 

He  spread  out  his  hands  in  deprecation.  In  his  quaint 
Germanic  way  he  held  one  hand  out  over  the  two 
motionless  forms  in  mute  prayer  that  they  might  be 
forgiven. 

"  We  all  have  our  faults,"  he  said.  "  Who  are  we  to 
judge  each  other?  If  wo  understood  all,  we  might  par- 
don. The  two  strongest  human  motives  are  ambition 
and  fear.  She  was  ruled  by  both.  I  myself  liave  seen 
her  under  the  influence  of  sudden  panic.  I  have  noted 
the  working  of  her  great  ambition.     She  was  i:)robably 


BEIIIXD    THE    VEIL  379 

deceived  at  every  turn  by  tliat  man,  who  was  a  scoun- 
drel. He  is  dead,  and  deatli  is  understood  to  wipe  out 
all  debts.  If  I  were  a  better  man  tlian  I  am,  I  might 
speak  well  of  him.  But — ach  Gott  !  that  man  was  a 
scoundrel  !  I  think  the  good  God  will  judge  between 
them  and  forgive  that  poor  woman.  Slie  must  have 
repented  of  her  action  when  she  heard  the  clatter  of  the 
rioters  all  round  the  castle.  I  am  sure  she  did  that.  I 
am  sure  she  came  down  here  to  shut  the  door,  and  found 
Claude  de  Cliauxville  here.  They  were  probably  talk- 
ing together  when  the  poor  mad  fools  who  killed  them 
came  round  to  this  side  of  the  castle  and  found  them. 
They  recognized  her  as  the  princess.  They  probabl}' 
mistook  him  for  the  prince.  It  is  what  men  call  a  series 
of  coincidences.     I  w^onder  what  God  calls  it?  " 

lie  broke  off,  and,  stooping  down,  he  drew  the  lapel 
of  the  Frenchman's  cloak  gently  over  the  marred  face. 

"  And  let  us  remember,"  he  said,  "  that  he  tried  to 
save  her.  Some  lives  are  so.  At  the  very  end  a  little 
reparation  is  made.  In  life  he  was  her  evil  genius. 
When  he  died  they  trampled  him  underfoot  in  order  to 
reach  hero     Mademoiselle,  will  you  come  ?" 

He  took  Maggie  by  the  arm  and  led  her  gently 
away.  She  was  shaking  all  over,  but  his  hand  was 
steady  and  wholly  kind. 

He  led  her  up  the  narrow  stairs  to  her  own  room.  In 
the  little  boudoir  the  fire  was  burning  brightly  ;  the 
lamps  were  lighted,  just  as  the  maid  had  left  them  at  the 
first  alarm. 

Maggie  sat  down,  and  quite  suddenly  she  burst 
into  tears. 

Steinmetz  did  not  leave  her.  He  stood  beside  hei*, 
gently  stroking  her  shoulder  wdtli  his  stout  fingers.  He 
said  nothing,  but  the  gray  mustache  only  half  concealed 
his  lips,  which  were  twisted  with  a  little  smile  full  of 
tenderness  and  sympathy. 


380  THE     SOWERS 

Maggie  was  the  first  to  speak. 

"  I  am  all  right  now,"  slie  said.  "  Please  do  not  wait 
any  longer,  and  do  not  think  me  a  very  weak-minded 
person.     Poor  Etta  !  " 

Steinmetz  moved  away  toward  the  door. 

"  Yes,"  he  said  ;  "poor  Etta  !  It  is  often  those  who 
get  on  in  the  world  who  need  the  world's  pity  most." 

At  the  door  he  stopped. 

"To-morrow,"  he  said,  "I  will  take  you  home  to 
England.     Is  that  agreeable  to  you,  mademoiselle  ?  " 

She  smiled  at  him  sadly  through  her  tears. 

"Yes,  I  should  like  that,"  she  said.  "  This  country  is 
horrible.     You  are  very  kind  to  me." 

Steinmetz  went  down  stairs  and  found  Paul  at  the 
door  talking  to  a  young  officer,  who  slowly  dismounted 
and  lounged  into  the  hall,  conscious  of  his  brilliant  uni- 
form— of  his  own  physical  capacity  to  show  off  any 
uniform  to  full  advantage. 

He  was  a  lieutenant  in  a  Cossack  regiment,  and  as  he 
bowed  to  Steinmetz,  whom  Paul  introduced,  he  swung 
off  his  high  astrakhan  cap  with  a  flourish,  showing  a 
fair  boyish  face. 

"  Yes,"  he  continued  to  Paul  in  English  ;  "  the 
general  sent  me  over  with  a  sotnia  of  men,  and  pretty 
hungry  you  will  find  them.  We  have  covered  the 
whole  distance  since  daybreak.  A  report  reached  the 
old  gentleman  that  the  whole  countryside  was  about  to 
rise  against  you." 

"  Who  spread  the  report  ?"  asked  Steinmetz. 

"  I  believe  it  originated  down  at  the  wharfs.  It  has 
been  traced  to  an  old  man  and  his  daughter,— a  sort  of 
pedler,  I  think,  who  took  a  passage  down  the  river, — 
but  where  they  heard  the  rumor  I  don't  know." 

Paul  and  Steinmetz  carefully  avoided  looking  at  each 
other.  They  knew  that  Catrina  and  Stepan  Lanovitch 
liad  sent  back  assistance. 


BEHIND    THE    VEIL  381 


<«  Of  course,"  said  Paul,  "  I  am  very  glad  to  see  you, 
but  I  am  equally  glad  to  inform  you  that  you  are  i)ot 
^vanted.  Steinmetz  will  tell  you  all  about  it,  and  when 
you  are  ready  for  dinner  it  will  be  ready  for  you.  I  will 
Pive  instructions  that  the  men  be  cared  for.    _ 

"Thanks.  The  funny  thing  is  that  I  am  instructed, 
with  your  approval,  to  put  the  place  under  martial  law 
aiul  take  charge." 

"  That  will  not  be  necessary,  thanks,"  answered  i  aul, 
going  out  of  the  open  door  to  speak  to  the  wild-lookmg 
Cossacks  sent  for  his  protection.  ,.,     .      ,        i 

In  Russia,  as  in  other  countries  where  life  is  cheaply 
held,  the  death  formalities  are  small.  It  is  only  in 
Enoland,  where  we  are  so  careful  for  the  individual 
and  so  careless  of  the  type,  that  we  have  to  pay  for 
dying,  and  leave  a  mass  of  red-tape  formalities  for  our 

'while  the  young  officer  was  changing  his  uniform 
for  the  evening  finery  which  his  servant^s  forethought 
had  provided,  Paul  and  Steinmetz  hurriedly  arranged 
what  story  of  the  evening  should  be  given  to  the  world. 
Knowing  the  country  as  they  did,  they  wei^  enabled  to 
tell  a  true  tale,  which  was  yet  devoid  of  that  small 
personal  interest  that  gossips  love.  And  all  the  world 
ever  knew  was  that  the  Princess  Howard  Alexis  was 
killed  by  the  revolted  peasants  while  attempting  to 
escape  by  a  side  door,  and  that  the  Baron  Claude  ue 
Chauxville,  who  was  staying  in  the  neighborhood,  me 
liis  death  in  attempting  to  save  her  from  the  iury  ct 

^'orthe  recommendation  of  Karl  Steinmetz,  Paul 
placed  the  castle  and  village  under  martial  law,  and 
there  and  then  gave  the  command  to  the  young  Cossack 
officer,  pending  further  instructions  from  his  general, 
commanding  at  Tver. 

The  officer  dined  with  Steinmetz,  and  under  the  care- 


382  TIJE     SOWERS 

fill  treatment  of  that  diplomatist  inaugurated  a  reign 
of  military  autocracy,  wliicli  varied  pleasingly  between 
strict  discipline  and  boyish  neglect. 

Before  the  master  of  the  situation  had  slept  off  tlie 
effect  of  his  hundred-mile  ride  and  a  heavy  dinner,  the 
next  morning  Steinmetz  and  Maggie  were  ready  to 
start  on  their  journey  to  England. 

The  breakfast  was  served  in  the  room  abutting  on  the 
cliff  in  the  dim  liglit  of  a  misty  morning. 

The  lamps  were  alight  on  the  table,  and  Paul  was 
waiting  when  Maggie  came  down  cloaked  for  her  jour- 
ne}^     Steinmetz  had  breakfasted. 

They  said  good-morning,  and  managed  to  talk  of 
ordinary  things  until  Maggie  was  supplied  with  coffee 
and  toast  and  a  somewhat  heavy,  manly  helping  of  a 
breakfast-dish.     Then  came  a  silence. 

Paul  broke  it  at  lengtli  with  an  effort,  standing,  as  it 
were,  on  the  edge  of  tlie  forbidden  topic. 

"  Steinmetz  will  take  you  all  tlie  way,"  he  said,  "  and 
then  come  back  to  me.  You  can  safely  trust  yourself 
to  his  care." 

"  Yes,"  answered  the  girl,  looking  at  the  food  set 
before  her  with  a  helpless  stare.  "It  is  not  that.  Can 
I  safely  trust  Etta's  memor}^  to  your  judgment?  You 
are  very  stern,  Paul.  I  think  you  might  easily  misjudge 
her.  Men  do  not  always  understand  a  woman's  temp- 
tations." 

Paul  had  not  sat  down.  He  Avalked  away  to  the 
window,  and  stood  there  looking  out  into  the  gloomy 
mists. 

"  It  is  not  because  she  Avas  my  cousin,"  said  Maggie 
from  the  table  ;  *'  it  is  because  she  was  a  woman  leaving 
her  memory  to  be  judged  by  two  men  who  are  both- 
hard." 

Paul  neither  looked  round  nor  ansAvered. 

"  When  a  woman  has  to  form  her  own  life,  and  ren- 


BEHIND    THE    VEIL  383 

ders  it  a  prominent  one,  slie  usually  makes  a  liuge  mis- 
take of  it,"  said  the  girl. 

She  waited  a  moment,  and  then  slie  pleaded  once  more, 
hastily,  for  she  heard  a  step  approacliing. 

"  If  you  only  understood  every  thing  you  might  think 
differently — it  is  because  ycu  cannot  understand." 

Tlien  Paul  turned  round  slowl}'. 

"  No,"  lie  said,  "  I  cannot  understand  it,  and  I  do  not 
think  that  I  ever  shall." 

And  Steinmetz  came  into  the  room. 

In  a  few  minutes  the  sleigh  hearing  Steinmetz  and 
Maggie  disappeared  into  the  gloom,  closely  followed 
by  a  couple  of  Cossacks  acting  as  guard  and  carrying 
despatches. 

So  Etta  Sydney  Bamborough — the  Princess  Howard 
Alexis — came  back  after  all  to  her  husband,  lying  in  a 
nameless  grave  in  the  churchyard  by  the  Volga  at  Tver. 
Within  the  white  walls — beneath  the  shadow  of  the 
great  spangled  cupola — they  await  the  Verdict,  almost 
side  by  side. 


CHAPTER  XLIV 

KISMET 

Between  Brandon  in  Suffolk  and  Thetford  in  Nor- 
folk runs  a  quiet  river,  the  Little  Ouse,  where  few  boats 
break  the  stillness  of  the  water.  On  either  bank  stand 
whispering  beech-trees,  and  so  low  is  the  music  of  the 
leaves  that  the  message  of  El^^'s  distant  bells  floats 
through  them  on  a  quiet  evening  as  far  as  Brandon  and 
beyond  it. 

Three  years  after  Etta's  death,  in  the  glow  of  an  April 
sunset,  a  Canadian  canoe  was  making  its  stealthy  way 
up  the  river.  The  paddle  cre])t  in  and  out  so  gently^ 
so  lazily  and  peacefull}^,  that  the  dabchicks  and  other 
waterfowl  did  not  cease  their  chatter  of  nests  and  othei 
April  matters  as  the  canoe  glided  by. 

So  quiet,  indeed,  Avas  its  progress  that  Karl  Stein- 
metz — suddenly  white-headed,  as  strong  old  men  aie  apt 
to  find  themselves — did  not  heed  its  approach.  He  was 
sitting  on  the  bank  with  a  gun,  a  little  rifle,  lying  on  the 
grass  beside  him.  lie  was  half-asleej)  in  the  enjoyment 
of  a  large  Havana  cigar.  The  rays  of  the  setting  sun, 
peeping  through  the  lower  branches,  made  him  blink 
lazily  like  a  large,  good-natured  cat. 

He  turned  his  head  slowly,  with  a  hunter's  conscious- 
ness of  the  approach  of  some  one,  and  contemplated  the 
canoe  with  a  sense  of  placid  satisfaction. 

The  small  craft  was  passing  in  the  shadow  of  a  great 
tree — stealing  over  the  dark,  unruflled  dei)th,  A  girl 
dressed  in  white,  with  a  largo  diaphanous  white  hat  and 


KISMET  385 

a  ge!\cral  air  of  brisk  Englisli  daiutiiiess,  was  paddling 
slowly  and  with  no  great  skill. 

"A  picture,"  said  Steinnietz  to  liiniseK;  with  Teutonic 
deliberation.  "  Gott  ini  Ilininiel  !  what  a  pretty  picture 
to  make  an  old  man  young  !  " 

Then  his  gray  eyes  opened  suddenly  and  he  rose  to 
liis  feet. 

"  Coloss-a-al  !  "  lie  muttered.  He  dragged  from  his 
iiead  a  lamentable  old  straw  hat  and  swept  a  courteous 
bow. 

"  Mademoiselle,"  he  said, "  ah,  what  happiness  !  After 
three  years  !  '* 

Maggie  stopped  and  looked  at  him  with  troubled 
eyes  ;  all  the  color  slowly  left  her  face. 

"  What  are  yoii  doing  here  ?  "  she  asked-  And  there 
jtvas  something  like  fear  in  her  voice. 

"  I^[o  harm,  mademoiselle,  but  good.  I-  have  come 
^jlown  from  big  game  to  vermin.  I  have  here  a  saloon 
s'ifle.  I  wait  till  a  water-rat  comes,  and  then  I  shoot 
^)im." 

The  canoe  had  drifted  closer  to  the  land,  the  paddle 
trailing  iu  the  water. 

"  You  are  looking  at  my  white  hairs,"  he  went  on,  in 
a  sudden  need  of  conversation.  "  Please  bring  your 
boat  a  iittle  nearer." 

The  paddle  twisted  lazily  in  the  water  like  a  fish's 
tail. 

"  Hold  tight,^  he  said,  reaching  down. 

Witii  a  little  laugh  he  lifted  the  canoe  and  its  occu- 
pant far  up  on  to  the  bank. 

"  Despite  my  white  hairs,"  he  said,  with  a  tap  of  both 
hands  on  his  broad  chest. 

"  I  attach  no  importance  to  them,"  she  answered,  tak- 
ing his  proffered  hand  and  stepping  over  the  light  bul- 
wark.    "  I  have  gray  ones  myself.     I  am  getting  old 


25 


386  THE     SOWERS 

"  How  old  ?  "  ho  asked,  looking  down  at  her  with  his 
old  bluntness. 
*' Twenty-eight." 

"Ah,  they  are  summers,"  he  said  ;  ^^  mine  have  turned 
to  winters.  Will  you  sit  here  where  I  was  sitting  ?  See, 
I  will  spread  this  rug  for  your  white  dress." 

Maggie  paused,  looking  through  tlie  trees  toward  the 
sinking  sun.  The  light  fell  on  lier  face  and  showed  one 
or  two  lines  which  had  not  been  there  before.  It  showed 
a  patient  tenderness  in  the  steady  eyes  which  had  al- 
ways been  there — which  Catrina  had  noticed  in  the 
stormy  days  that  were  past. 

"I  cannot  stay  long,"  she  replied.  "I  am  with  the 
Faneaux  at  Brandon  for  a  few  days.  They  dine  at 
seven." 

"Ah!  her  ladyship  is  a  good  friend  of  mine.  You 
remember  her  charity  ball  in  town,  when  it  was  settled 
that  you  should  come  to  Osterno.  A  strange  world, 
mademoiselle— a  very  strange  world,  so  small,  and  yet 
so  large  and  bare  for  some  of  us  !  " 

Maggie  looked  at  him.     Then  she  sat  down. 
"Tell  me,"  slie  said,   "all  that  has   liappened  since 
then." 

"  I  went  back,"  answered  Steinmetz,  "  and  we  were 
duly  exiled  from  Russia.  It  was  sure  to  come.  We 
were  too  dangerous.  Altogether  too  quixotic  for  an 
autocracy.  For  myself  I  did  not  uiind,  but  it  hurt 
Paul." 

Tliere  was  a  little  pause,  while  the  water  lapped  and 
whispered  at  their  feet. 

"I   heard,"  said   Maggie    at    length,   in    a    measured 
voice,  "  that  he  had  gone  abroad  for  big  game." 
«  Yes— to  India." 

"He  did  not  go  to  America?"  enquired  Maggie  in- 
differentl3^  Si>o\vas  idly  throwing  fragments  of  wood 
into  the  river. 


KISMET  387 

"  No,''  answered  SteiiiniGtz,  looking  straiglit  in  front 
of  him.     "No,  lie  did  not  go  to  America." 

"And  you?" 

"  I — oil,  I  sta3'ed  at  home.  I  have  taken  a  house. 
It  is  behind  the  trees.  You  cannot  see  it.  I  live  at 
peace  with  all  men  and  pay  my  bills  every  Aveek. 
Sometimes  Paul  comes  and  stays  with  me.  Sometimes 
I  go  and  stay  with  him  in  London  or  in  Scotland. 
I  smoke  and  shoot  water-rats,  and  watch  the  younger 
generation  making  the  same  mistakes  that  we  made 
in  our  time.  You  have  heard  that  my  country  is  in 
order  again  ?  They  have  remembered  me.  For  my 
sins  they  have  made  me  a  count.  Bon  Dieu  !  I  do 
not  mind.  They  may  make  me  a  prince,  if  it  pleases 
them." 

He  was  watching  her  face  beneath  his  grim  old  eye- 
brows. 

"  Tiiese  details  bore  you,"  he  said. 

"  No." 

"  When  Paul  and  I  are  together  we  talk  of  a  new 
heaven  and  a  new  Russia.  But  it  will  not  come  in  our 
time.  We  are  only  the  sowers,  and  the  harvest  is  not 
yet.  But  I  tell  Paul  that  he  has  not  sown  wild  oats, 
nor  sour  grapes,  nor  thistles." 

He  paused,  and  the  expression  of  his  face  changed  to 
one  of  semi-humorous  gravitj^ 

"Mademoiselle,"  he  went  on,  "it  has  been  my  lot  to 
love  the  prince  like  a  son.  It  has  been  my  lot  to  stand 
helplessly  bj^  while  he  passed  through  man}^  troubles. 
Perhaps  the  good  God  gave  him  all  his  troubles  at  first. 
Do  you  think  so  ?" 

Maggie  was  looking  straight  in  front  of  her  across 
the  quiet  river. 

"  Perhaps  so,"  she  said. 

Steinmetz  also  stared  in  front  of  him  during  a  little 
silence.     The  common  thoughts  of  two  minds  may  well 


388  THE     SOWERS 

be  drawn  together  by  the  contemplation  of  a  common 
object.     Then  he  tnriied  toward  her. 

"It  will  be  a  happiness  for  him  to  see  yon,"  he  said 
quietly. 

Maggie  ceased  breaking  small  brandies  and  tlirowing 
them  into  the  river.  She  ceased  all  movement,  and 
scarcely  seemed  to  breathe. 

"  What  do  3^ou  mean  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  He  is  staying  witli  me  liere." 

Maggie  glanced  toward  the  canoe.  She  drew  a  sliort^ 
sliarp  breatl),  bnt  slie  did  not  move. 

"  Mademoiselle,"  said  Steinmetz  earnestl}^,  "I  am 
an  old  man,  and  in  my  time  I  have  dabbled  pretty  deeply 
in  trouble.  But  taking  it  all  around,  even  my  life  has 
had  its  compensations.  And  I  have  seen  lives  which, 
taken  as  a  mere  mortal  existence,  Avithont  looking  to 
the  hereafter  at  all,  have  been  quite  worth  the  living. 
There  is  much  happiness  in  life  to  make  up  for  the  rest. 
But  that  happiness  must  be  firmly  held.  It  is  so  easily 
slipped  through  the  finofers.  A  little  irresolution — a 
little  want  of  moral  courage — a  little  want  of  self-cou- 
iidence — a  little  pride,  and  it  is  lost.     You  follow  me  ?  " 

Maggie  nodded.  There  Avas  a  great  tenderness  in  her 
eyes — such  a  tenderness  as,  resting  on  men,  may  bring 
them  nearer  to  the  angels. 

Steinmetz  laid  his  large  hand  over  hers. 

"Mademoiselle," he  went  on,  "I  believe  that  the  good 
God  sent  you  along  this  lonely  river  in  your  boat.  Paul 
leaves  me  to-morrow.  His  arrangements  are  to  go  to 
India  and  shoot  tigers.  He  will  sail  in  a  week.  There 
are  things  of  which  we  never  speak  together — there  is 
one  name  that  is  never  mentioned.  Since  Osterno  you 
have  avoided  meeting  him.  God  knows  I  am  not  ask- 
ing for  him  any  thing  that  he  would  be  afraid  to  ask  for 
liimself.  But  he  also  has  his  pride.  He  will  not  force 
himself  in  where  he  thinks  his  presence  unwelcome." 


KISMET  389 

Steinmetz  rose  somewliat  ponderously  find  stood  look- 
iiii;  down  at  lier.  lie  did  not,  however,  succeed  in  meet- 
ing her  eyes. 

"  Mademoiselle,"  he  said,  "  I  beg  of  you  most  humbly 
—most  respectfully— to  come  through  the  garden  with 
me  toward  the  house,  so  that  Paul  may  at  least  know 
that  you  are  here.'* 

He  moved  away  and  stood  for  a  moment  with  his 
back  turned  to  her,  looking  toward  the  house.  Tlie 
crisp  rustle  of  her  dress  came  to  him  as  she  rose  to  her 
feet. 

Without  looking  round,  he  walked  slowly  on.  The 
path  througli  the  trees  was  narrow,  two  could  not  walk 
abreast.  After  a  few  yards  Steinmetz  emerged  on  to  a 
large,  sloping  lawn  with  flower  beds,  and  a  long,  low 
house  above  it.  On  the  covered  terrace  a  man  sat  writ- 
ing at  a  table.  He  was  surrounded  by  papers,  and  the 
pen  in  his  large,  firm  hand  moved  rapidly  over  the  sheet 
before  him. 

"  We  still  administer  the  estate,"  said  Steinmetz,  in  a 
low  voice.     "  From  our  exiie  we  still  sow  our  seed." 

They  approached  over  ii'.e  mossy  turf,  and  presently 
Paul  looked  up— a  strong  face,  stern  and  self-contained  ; 
the  face  of  a  man  who  would  always  have  a  purpose  in 
life,  who  would  never  be  petty  in  thought  or  deed. 

For  a  moment  he  did  not  seem  to  recognize  them. 
Then  he  rose,  and  the  pen  fell  on  the  flags  of  the  terrace. 

"  It  is  mademoiselle  !  "  said  Steinmetz,  and  no  other 
word  was  spoken. 

Maggie  walked  on  in  a  sort  of  unconsciousness.  She 
only  knew  that  they  were  all  acting  an  inevitable  part, 
written  for  them  in  the  great  libretto  of  life.  She  never 
noticed  that  Steinmetz  had  left  her  side,  that  she  was 
walking  across  the  lawn  alone. 

Paul  came  to  meet  her,  and  took  her  hand  in  silence. 
There  was  so  much  to  say  that  words  seemed  suddenly 


390  THE     SOWERS 

valueless  ;   there   was   so    little   to  say   that  they  were 
unnecessary. 

For  that  wliicli  these  two  had  to  tell  each  other  can- 
not be  told  in  minutes,  nor  ^x't  in  years  ;  it  cannot  even 
be  told  in  a  lifetime,  for  it  is  endless,  and  it  runs  through 
eternity. 


THE    END 


By   Sir  WALTER   BESANT 


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